the young man, in an impassive, pleasant
voice.

"He has always, in everything, been so thoughtful for my comfort and
happiness," said Lady Channice.

Augustine did not look at her: his eyes were fixed on the sky outside
and he seemed to be reflecting--though not over her words.

"So that I couldn't bear him ever to hear anything of that sort," Lady
Channice went on, "that either of us could find it gloomy, I mean. You
wouldn't ever say it to him, would you, Augustine." There was a note at
once of urgency and appeal in her voice.

"Of course not, since you don't wish it," her son replied.

"I ask you just because it happens that your father is coming," Lady
Channice said, "tomorrow;--and, you see, if you had this in your mind,
you might have said something. He is coming to spend the afternoon."

He looked at her now, steadily, still pleasantly; but his colour rose.

"Really," he said.

"Isn't it nice. I do hope that it will be fine; these Autumn days are so
uncertain; if only the weather holds up we can have a walk perhaps."

"Oh, I think it will hold up. Will there be time for a walk?"

"He will be here soon after lunch, and, I think, stay on to tea."

"He didn't stay on to tea the last time, did he."

"No, not last time; he is so very busy; it's quite three years since we
have had that nice walk over the meadows, and he likes that so much."

She was trying to speak lightly and easily. "And it must be quite a year
since you have seen him."

"Quite," said Augustine. "I never see him, hardly, but here, you know."

He was still making his attempt at pleasantness, but something hard and
strained had come into his voice, and as, with a sort of helplessness,
her resources exhausted, his mother sat silent, he went on, glancing at
her, as if with the sudden resolution, he also wanted to make very sure
of his way;--

"You like seeing him more than anything, don't you; though you are
separated."

Augustine Channice talked a great deal to his mother about outside
things, such as philosophy; but of personal things, of their relation to
the world, to each other, to his father, he never spoke. So that his
speaking now was arresting.

His mother gazed at him. "Separated? We have always been the best of
friends."

"Of course. I mean--that you've never cared to live
together.--Incompatibility, I suppose. Only," Augustine did not smile,
he looked steadily at his mother, "I should think that since you are so
fond