than Patty Vetch. She
possessed every quality he had found lacking in poor Patty; yet he
admitted ruefully that he felt the vague sense of disappointment which
follows when one is offered a dish of one's choice and finds that the
expected flavour is missing.

There was a peremptory knock at his door, and his mother looked in
reproachfully. "You must hurry, Stephen, or everything will be burned to
a cinder."

"I am sorry," he replied with compunction, "I didn't realize that I was
late."

Her expression was stern but kind. "If you could only learn to be
punctual, dear. Of course while we felt that you were not quite
yourself, we tried not to worry about it. But you have been home so long
now that you ought to be able to drop back into your old habits."

She was right, he knew; the exasperating thing about her was that she
was always right. It was reasonable, it was logical, that after two
years he should be able to drop back into his old habits of life; and
yet he realized, with the intensity of revolt, that these habits
represented for him the form of bondage from which he desired
passionately to escape. He could not oppose his mother, and the
knowledge that he could not oppose her increased his annoyance. As far
back as he could remember she had governed her household as a benevolent
despot; and the fact that she lived entirely for others appeared to him
to have endowed her with some unfair advantage. Her very unselfishness
had developed into an unscrupulous power to ruin their lives. How was it
possible to weigh one's personal preferences against an irresistible
force which was actuated simply and solely by the desire for one's good?
Who could withstand a virtue which had encased itself in the first
principle of religion--which gave all things and demanded nothing except
the sacrifice of one's immortal soul?

"I am ready now," he said; and then as they went downstairs together, he
added contritely: "After this I'll try to remember."

"I hope you will, my dear. It vexes your father." Even in his childhood
Stephen had understood that his father's "vexation" existed only as an
instrument of correction in the hands of his mother. Though he had
discovered by the time he was three years old that the image was nothing
more than a nursery bugaboo, there were occasions still when the figure
was solemnly dressed up and paraded before his eyes.

"So it's the Dad, bless him!" he exclaimed, for if he loved his mother
in s