s she hotly.

Rylton pauses. "No; not my father," says he distinctly, if gently.

"You mean, then, that you accuse _me!"_ cries she, flashing round at
him.

All at once her singularly youthful face grows as old as it ought to
be--a vindictive curve round the mouth makes that usually charming
feature almost repulsive.

"My dear mother, let us avoid a scene," says her son sternly. "To
tell you the truth, I have had too many of them of late."

Something in his manner warns her to go no farther in the late
direction. If she is to win the cause so close to her heart, she had
better refrain from recrimination--from an accusation of any sort.

"Dearest Maurice," says she, going to him and taking his hand in
hers, "you know it is for your sake only I press this dreadful
matter. She is so rich, and you--we--are so poor! She has a house in
Surrey, and one in the North--delightful places, I have been
told--and, of course, she would like you to keep up your own house
in town. As for me, all I ask is this old house--bare and
uncomfortable as it is."

"Nonsense, mother," letting her hand go and turning away
impatiently. "You speak as if it were all settled."

"Why should it _not_ be settled?"

"You talk without thinking!" He is frowning now, and his tone is
growing angry. "Am I the only one to be consulted?"

"Oh! as for her--that child! Of course you can influence her."

"I don't want to," wearily.

"You can do more than that. You are very good-looking, Maurice. You
can----" She hesitates.

"Can what?" coldly.

"Fascinate her."

"I shall certainly not even try to do that. Good heavens! what do
you mean?" says her son, colouring a dark red with very shame. "Are
you asking me to make love to this girl--to pretend an admiration
for her that I do not feel? To--to--_lie_ to her?"

"I am only asking you to be sensible," says his mother sullenly. She
has gone back to her chair, and now, with lowered lids and
compressed lips, is fanning herself angrily.

"I shan't be sensible in that way," says her son, very hotly. "Put
it out of your head. To me Miss Bolton (it is really ridiculous to
call her Miss anything; she ought to be Betty, or Lizzie, or Lily,
or whatever her name is, to everyone at her age)--to me she seems
nothing but a baby--and--I _hate_ babies!"

"Marian has taught you!" Says his mother, with a sneer. "_She_
certainly is not a baby, whatever else she may be. But I tell you
this, Maurice, that you will h