r ambition
than the playing of cards winter and summer, afternoon after afternoon,
is--is pitiable."

Clodagh leant forward.

"Perhaps they play cards because they have no real interests."

He looked at her quickly.

"And why have they no real interests, Mrs. Milbanke? Isn't it because
they reject all simple, natural, wholesome things? Such women do not
know the meaning of the word home. They do not want a home--or home
life, as the women of the last generation understood it."

"Ah, there you touch bottom, my dear Gore! There you are in your
depth!" Again Barnard gave one of his smooth, tactful laughs. "This
young man has a great pull over us, Mrs. Milbanke, when he compares the
present generation with the past."

At the suave words, Gore made a slightly embarrassed gesture, and
looked instinctively towards Milbanke.

"Forgive my tirade, sir!" he said a little confusedly. "Mr. Barnard is
right. I have rather a high ideal of womanhood. I am possessed of a--a
very remarkable mother."

"A mother!" Clodagh looked round impulsively. "Oh, tell me what she is
like!"

With a certain spontaneity, Gore turned to respond to her question; but
before his eyes met hers, their glance was intercepted by a shrewd,
amused, inquiring look from Barnard. The effect of the look was
strange. His emotion so suddenly aroused, died suddenly. His face
became passive, even a little cold. He straightened his shoulders, and
gave the restrained, self-conscious laugh that the Englishman resorts
to when he feels that his sentiments have entrapped him.

"Oh, you must not ask me what my mother is like, Mrs. Milbanke," he
said. "I could not give you an unbiassed opinion. As it is, I have been
wasting your time unpardonably. Barnard, do you think Mrs. Milbanke
will excuse you for ten minutes?"

Barnard rose slowly.

"Do not put me to the pain of saying 'yes,'" he exclaimed. "Let me
imagine that I am tearing myself away against Mrs. Milbanke's express
desire. Au revoir, Mrs. Milbanke! Au revoir, James!"

He nodded, and sauntered off in the direction of the hotel door.

A moment later Gore shook hands silently with Clodagh and her husband,
and moved away in the same direction.

As he disappeared into the hotel, Milbanke folded his newspaper with
interested haste.

"What a well-mannered young man!" he said. "Who is he? What is his
name?"

Clodagh was sitting very still, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes
fixed upon some distant obj