ther can understand what that means, how much and how
far it goes. You are a father, but until last night you never had the
flush of that love in your veins. You stand yet only at the door of
that life which has done more to guide, save, instruct, and deepen your
wife's life than anything else, though your brother Richard--to whom you
owe a debt that you can never repay--has done much in deed. Be wise, my
dear, as I have learned a little to be since first your wife came. All
might easily have gone wrong. It has all gone well; and we, my son,
have tried to do our duty lovingly, consistently, to dear Lali and the
child."

She made him promise that he would wait, that he would not try to hurry
his wife's affection for him by any spoken or insistent claim. "For,
Frank dear," she said, "you are only legally married, not morally, not
as God can bless--not yet. But I pray that what will sanctify all may
come soon, very soon, to the joy of us all. But again--and I cannot say
it too prayerfully--do not force one little claim that your marriage
gave you, but prove yourself to her, who has cause to distrust you so
much. Will you forgive your mother, my dear, for speaking to you?"

He had told her then that what she had asked he had intended as his own
course, yet what she had said would keep it in his mind always, for
he was sure it was right. Mrs. Armour had then embraced him, and they
parted. Dealing with Lali had taught them all much of the human heart
that they had never known before, and the result thereof was wisdom.

They talked casually enough for the rest of the ride, and before they
parted at the door Frank received his commission for Regent Street, and
accepted it with delight, as a schoolboy might a gift. He was absurdly
grateful for any favours from her, any sign of her companionship. They
met at luncheon; then, because Lali had to keep an engagement in Eaton
Square, they parted again, and Frank and Richard took a walk, after a
long hour with the child, who still so hungered for his sword that Frank
disobeyed orders, and dragged Richard off to Oxford Street to get one.
He was reduced to a beatific attitude of submission, for he knew that
he had few odds with him now, and that he must live by virtue of new
virtues. He was no longer proud of himself in any way, and he knew that
no one else was, or rather he felt so, and that was just the same.

He talked of the boy, he talked of his wife, he laid plans, he tore them