is hand on
his mother's knee in a rough sort of caress. "We are generally in the
shadow while Cuthbert is in the sunshine, eh? The influence of this old
place makes me poetical, you see."

"_You_ need not be in the shadow," said Mrs. Brand. But she said it with
an effort.

"Needn't I?" said Wyvis. He thrust his hands into his pockets and leaned
back in his chair with another laugh. "I have such a lot to make me
cheerful, haven't I?"

His mother turned her eyes upon him with a look of yearning tenderness
which, even if the room had been less dimly lighted, he would not have
seen. He was not much in the habit of looking for sympathy in other
people's faces.

"Is the place worse than you expected?" she asked, with a tremor in her
voice.

"It is mouldier--and smaller," he replied, curtly. "One's childish
impressions don't go for much. And it is in a miserable state--roof out
of repair--fences falling down--drainage imperfect. It has been allowed
to go to rack and ruin while we were away."

"Wyvis, Wyvis," said his mother, in a tone of pain, "I kept you away for
your own sake. I thought you would be happier abroad."

"Oh--happier!" said the young man, rather scornfully. "Happiness isn't
meant for me: it isn't in my line. It makes no difference to me whether
I am here or in Paris. I should have been here long ago if I had had
any idea that things were going wrong in this way."

"I suppose," said Mrs. Brand, carefully controlling her voice, "that you
will not have the visitors you spoke of if the house is in so bad a
state."

"Not have visitors? Of course I shall have visitors. What else is there
for me to do with myself? We shall get the house put pretty straight by
the 12th. Not that there will be any shooting worth speaking of on _my_
place."

"If nobody comes before the 12th, I think we can make the house
habitable. I will do my best, Wyvis."

Wyvis laughed again, but in a softer key. "You!" he said. "You can't do
much, mother. It isn't the sort of thing you care about. You stay in
your own rooms and do your needle-work; I'll see to the house. Some men
are coming long before the 12th--the day after to-morrow, I believe."

"Who?"

"Oh, Dering and St. John and Ponsonby, I expect. I don't know whether
they will bring any one else."

"The worst men of the worst set you know!" sighed his mother, under her
breath. "Could not you have left them behind?"

She felt rather than saw how he frowned--how his hand t