ooked at him a little piteously.

"You don't understand," she muttered. "You don't understand. I'm his
mother. And I want him to be happy."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I am sorry," he said, "that I cannot help you. But I'm afraid Tim's
happiness isn't going to be purchased at my expense. I haven't the least
intention of blackening myself in the eyes of the woman I love for the
sake of Tim--or of twenty Tims. Please understand that, once and for
all."

He gestured as though to indicated that she should precede him to the
window by which she had entered. But she made no movement to go. Instead
she flung back her cloak as though it were stifling her, and caught him
impetuously by the arm.

"Maurice! Maurice! For God's sake, listen to me!" Her voice was suddenly
shaken with passionate entreaty. "Use some other method, then! Break
with her some other way! If you only knew how I hate to ask you this--I
who have already brought only sorrow and trouble into your life! But
Tim--my son--he must come first!" She pressed a little closer to him,
lifting her face imploringly. "Maurice, you loved me once--for the sake
of that love, grant me my boy's happiness!"

Quietly, inexorably, he disengaged himself from the eager clasp of her
hand. Her beautiful, agonized face, the vehement supplication of her
voice, moved him not a jot.

"You are making a poor argument," he said coldly. "You are making your
request in the name of a love that died three-and-twenty years ago."

"Do you mean"--she stared at him--"that you have not cared--at
all--since?" She spoke incredulously. Then, suddenly, she laughed. "And
I--what a fool I was!--I used to grieve--often--thinking how you must be
suffering!"

He smiled wryly as at some bitter memory.

"Perhaps I did," he responded shortly. "Death has its pains--even the
death of first love. My love for you died hard, Elisabeth--but it died.
You killed it."

"And you will not do what I ask for the sake of the love you--once--gave
me?" There was a desperate appeal in her low voice.

He shook his head. "No," he said, "I will not."

She made a gesture of despair.

"Then you drive me into doing what I hate to do!" she exclaimed
fiercely. She was silent for a moment, standing with bowed head, her
mouth working painfully. Then, drawing herself up, she faced him again.
There was something in the lithe, swift movement that recalled a panther
gathering itself together for its spring.

"Listen!" she