ch a marriage would be beneath her. Or, another time, she hinted
that Miss Falbe might be already married; indeed, this seemed a very
plausible explanation of her attitude. She desired, in fact, that Sylvia
should not come to see her any more, and now, when she did not, there
was scarcely a day in which Lady Ashbridge would not talk in a pointed
manner about pretended friends who leave you alone, and won't even take
the trouble to take a two-penny 'bus (if they are so poor as all that)
to come from Chelsea to Curzon Street.

Michael knew that his mother's steps were getting nearer and nearer to
that border line which separates the sane from the insane, and with all
the wearing strain of the days as they passed, had but the one desire
in his heart, namely, to keep her on the right side for as long as was
humanly possible. But something might happen, some new symptom develop
which would make it impossible for her to go on living with him as she
did now, and the dread of that moment haunted his waking hours and his
dreams. Two months ago her doctor had told him that, for the sake of
everyone concerned, it was to be hoped that the progress of her disease
would be swift; but, for his part, Michael passionately disclaimed such
a wish. In spite of her constant complaints and strictures, she was
still possessed of her love for him, and, wearing though every day was,
he grudged the passing of the hours that brought her nearer to the awful
boundary line. Had a deed been presented to him for his signature, which
bound him indefinitely to his mother's service, on the condition that
she got no worse, his pen would have spluttered with his eagerness to
sign.

In consequence of his mother's dislike to Sylvia, Michael had hardly
seen her during this last month. Once, when owing to some small physical
disturbance, Lady Ashbridge had gone to bed early on a Sunday evening,
he had gone to one of the Falbes' weekly parties, and had tried to fling
himself with enjoyment into the friendly welcoming atmosphere. But for
the present, he felt himself detached from it all, for this life with
his mother was close round him with a sort of nightmare obsession,
through which outside influence and desire could only faintly trickle.
He knew that the other life was there, he knew that in his heart he
longed for Sylvia as much as ever; but, in his present detachment, his
desire for her was a drowsy ache, a remote emptiness, and the veil that
lay over his