ight. They were an aid to vanity, however; and the care Edwin Reeves
bestowed on his clothes suggested that he was a vain as well as a clever
man.

The son was a young and notably good-looking copy of his father, whose
partner in business he had lately become. They were singularly alike
except in colouring, for Grant was brown-haired and brown-eyed, with
plenty of curled-back lashes which gave him an alert look.

Both men started forward at the sight of Max, Grant striding ahead of
Edwin and grasping Max's hand, "I _had_ to come, old chap," he said,
with a pleasant though slightly affected accent meant to be English. "I
wanted just to shake hands and tell you how I felt."

"Thank you, Grant," said Max. "Is she--is there hope?"

"Oh, there's always hope, you know; isn't there, governor?"

Grant Reeves appealed to his father, who had joined them. "Who can tell?
She's wonderful."

Edwin Reeves took the hand Max held out, and then did nothing with it,
in the aloof, impersonal way that had always irritated Max, and made him
want to fling away the unresponsive fingers. Now, however, for the first
time in his life he did not notice. He was lost in his desire for and
fear of the verdict.

"It would only be cruel to raise his hopes," the father answered the
son. "The doctors (there are four) say it's a miracle she's kept alive
till now. Sheer will-power. She's living to see you."

Max was dumb, his throat constricted. And then, there was nothing to
say. Something deep down in him--something he could not bear to
hear--was asking why she should suddenly _care_ so much? She had never
cared before, never really cared, though in his intense admiration of
her, almost amounting to worship, he had fought to make himself believe
that she did love him as other mothers loved their sons. Yet his heart
knew the truth: that she had become more and more indifferent as he
grew up from a small boy into a young man. Since he went to West Point
they had spent very little time together, though they were always on
affectionate terms. She had never spoken a disagreeable word to him,
never given him a cross look. Only--there had been nothing of the mother
about her. She had treated him like a nice visiting boy who must be
entertained, even fascinated, and then gently got rid of when he began
to be a bore. In his first term at West Point she had sailed for Europe,
and stopped there for two years. When he was graduated she had gone
again, and s