vered between life and death. A lay figure
would do just as well; if it would only sit in an armchair and hold
its handkerchief to its eyes; and if the neighbours, and his sisters,
and the servants could be persuaded to think it was I."

"Hush, hush!" said John.

"Do let me speak out; pray let me speak out," she said, breathless and
imploring, "and you can think what you like of me afterwards, when I
am gone, if only you won't scold now. I am so sick of being scolded,"
said Lady Mary. "Am I to be a child for ever--I, that am so old, and
have lost my boy?"

He thought there was something in her of the child that never grows
up; the guilelessness, the charm, the ready tears and smiles, the
quick changes of mood.

He rolled an elbow-chair forward, and put her into it tenderly.

"Say what you will," said John.

"This is comfortable," she said, leaning her head wearily on her hand;
"to talk to a--a friend who understands, and who will not scold.
But you can't understand unless I tell you everything; and Timothy
himself, after all, would be the first to explain to you that it isn't
my tears nor my kisses, nor my consolation he wants. You didn't think
so _really_, did you?"

John hesitated, remembering Sir Timothy's words, but she did not wait
for an answer.

"Yes," she said calmly, "he wishes me to be in my proper place. It
would be a scandal if I did such a remarkable thing as to leave
home on any pretext at such a moment. Only by being extraordinarily
respectable and dignified can we live down the memory of his father's
unconventional behaviour. I must remember my position. I must smell
my salts, and put my feet up on the sofa, and be moderately overcome
during the crisis, and moderately thankful to the Almighty when it's
over, so that every one may hear how admirably dear Lady Mary behaved.
And when I am reading the _Times_ to him during his convalescence,"
she cried, wringing her hands, "Peter--Peter will be thousands of
miles away, marching over the veldt to his death."

"You make very sure of Peter's death," said John, quietly.

"Oh yes," said Lady Mary, listlessly. "He's an only son. It's always
the only sons who die. I've remarked that."

"You make very sure of Sir Timothy's recovery."

"Oh yes," Lady Mary said again. "He's a very strong man."

Something ominous in John's face and voice attracted her attention.

"Why do you look like that?"

"Because," said John, slowly--"you understand I'm treating