or a month--or--years, as we please," said Frances, lazily
turning her head away. She wanted to set Clara Vance down in her
proper place. Mrs. Waldeaux abhorred cousinly intimates--people who
run into your back door to pry into the state of your larder or your
income. But Miss Vance, as Frances knew, unfortunately held a key to
her back door. She knew of George's wretched daubs, and his insane
desire, when he was a boy, to study art. He gave it up years ago. Why
should she nag him now about it? By virtue of her relationship she
knew, too, all of Mrs. Waldeaux's secrets. It was most unfortunate
that she should have chosen to sail on this vessel.

"Well, mother," George said, uneasy to get away, "no doubt Miss Vance
is right. We should set things in order. I am going now to give my
letter of credit to the purser to lock up; shall I take yours?"

Mrs. Waldeaux did not reply at once. "No," she said at last. "I like
to carry my own purse."

He smiled indulgently as on a child. "Of course, dear. It IS your
own. My father was wise in that. But, on this journey, I can act as
your paymaster, can't I? I have studied foreign money----"

"We shall see. I can keep it as safe as any purser now," she said,
obstinately shaking her head.

He laughed and walked away.

"You have not told him, then?" demanded Clara.

"No. And I never will. I will not hurt the boy by letting him know
that his mother has supported him, and remember, Clara, that he can
only hear it through you. Nobody knows that I am 'Quigg' but you."

Miss Vance lifted her eyebrows. "Nothing can need a lie," she quoted
calmly. Presently she said earnestly, "Frances, you are making a
mistake. Somebody ought to tell you the truth. There is no reason why
your whole being should be buried in that man. He should stand on his
own feet, now. You can be all that he needs as a mother, and yet live
out your own life. It is broader than his will ever be. At your age,
and with your capabilities, you should marry again. Think of the many
long years that are before you."

"I have thought of them," said Mrs. Waldeaux slowly. "I have had
lovers who came close to me as friends, but I never for a moment was
tempted to marry one of them. No, Clara. When the devil drove my
father to hand me over--innocent child as I was--to a man like Robert
Waldeaux, he killed in me the capacity for that kind of love. It is
not in me." She turned her strenuous face