ering the gloom above the river, the lamps were
paling to the day, when George went out and dropped this missive in the
letter-box. He came back to the river and lay down on an empty bench
under the plane-trees of the Embankment, and while he lay there one of
those without refuge or home, who lie there night after night, came up
unseen and looked at him.

But morning comes, and with it that sense of the ridiculous, so merciful
to suffering men. George got up lest anyone should see a Stoic lying
there in his evening clothes; and when it became time he put on his mask
and sallied forth. At the club he found his mother's note, and set out
for her hotel.

Mrs. Pendyce was not yet down, but sent to ask him to come up. George
found her standing in her dressing-gown in the middle of the room, as
though she knew not where to place herself for this, their meeting. Only
when he was quite close did she move and throw her arms round his neck.
George could not see her face, and his own was hidden from her, but
through the thin dressing-gown he felt her straining to him, and her
arms that had pulled his head down quivering; and for a moment it seemed
to him as if he were dropping a burden. But only for a moment, for at
the clinging of those arms his instinct took fright. And though she was
smiling, the tears were in her eyes, and this offended him.

"Don't, mother!"

Mrs. Pendyce's answer was a long look. George could not bear it, and
turned away.

"Well," he said gruffly, "when you can tell me what's brought you
up----"

Mrs. Pendyce sat down on the sofa. She had been brushing her hair;
though silvered, it was still thick and soft, and the sight of it about
her shoulders struck George. He had never thought of her having hair
that would hang down.

Sitting on the sofa beside her, he felt her fingers stroking his,
begging him not to take offence and leave her. He felt her eyes trying
to see his eyes, and saw her lips trembling; but a stubborn, almost evil
smile was fixed upon his face.

"And so, dear--and so," she stammered, "I told your father that I
couldn't see that done, and so I came up to you."

Many sons have found no hardship in accepting all that their mothers do
for them as a matter of right, no difficulty in assuming their devotion
a matter of course, no trouble in leaving their own affections to be
understood; but most sons have found great difficulty in permitting
their mothers to diverge one inch from the con