or abnormal about Harry. Sound sleep from the moment
he put his head on his pillow to the moment at eight o'clock when his
servant with great difficulty woke him, was the rule with him.

What could have happened the night before--while he and Lydia Penfold
were alone together? Victoria had seen them come back into the general
company, had indeed been restlessly on the watch for their return. It
had seemed to her--though how be sure in that mingled light?--both at the
moment of their reappearance and afterward, that Harry was somewhat
unusually pale and quiet, while the girl's look had struck her as
singular--_exaltee_--the eyes shining--yet the manner composed and sweet
as usual. She already divined the theorist in Lydia, the speculator with
life and conduct. "But not with my Harry!" thought the mother, fiercely.

But how could she prevent it? What could she do? What can any mother do
when the wave of energy--spiritual and physical--has risen or is rising
to its height in the young creature, and the only question is how and
where it shall break; in crash and tempest, or in a summer sea?

Delorme suddenly raised his great head from his easel.

"That was a delicious creature that sat by me last night."

"Miss Penfold? She is one of your devotees."

"She paints, so she said. _Mon Dieu_! Why do women paint?"

Victoria, roused, hotly defended the right of her sex to ply any honest
art in the world that might bring them either pleasure or money.

"_Mais la peinture_!" Delorme's shoulder shrugged still higher. "It is an
infernal thing, milady, painting. What can a woman make of it? She can
only unsex herself. And in the end--what she produces--what is it?"

"If it pays the rent--isn't that enough?"

"But a young girl like that! What, in God's name, has she do to with
paying the rent? Let her dance and sing--have a train of lovers--look
beautiful!"

"The whole duty of woman!" laughed Victoria with a touch of scorn; "for
our grandmothers."

"No: for all time," said Delorme stoutly. "Ask milord." He looked toward
the house, and Victoria saw Tatham emerging. But she had no intention
whatever of asking him. She rose hastily, excused herself on the score of
needing a few minutes' rest, and went to meet her son.

"I forgot to tell you, mother," he said, as they approached each other,
"Faversham's coming this afternoon. I had a letter from him this morning.
He seems to be trying to make the old man behave."

"I shall be