oung Benham with inexpressible indignations that
his sweet own mother, so gay, so brightly cheerful that even her tears
were stars, was never to be mentioned in his stepmother's presence, and
it was not until he had fully come to years of reflection that he began
to realize with what honesty, kindness and patience this naturally not
very happy lady had nursed, protected, mended for and generally mothered
him.

4

As Benham grew to look manly and bear himself with pride, his mother's
affection for him blossomed into a passion. She made him come down to
London from Cambridge as often as she could; she went about with him;
she made him squire her to theatres and take her out to dinners and
sup with her at the Carlton, and in the summer she had him with her at
Chexington Manor, the Hertfordshire house Sir Godfrey had given her.
And always when they parted she looked into his eyes to see if they were
still clean--whatever she meant by that--and she kissed his forehead and
cheeks and eyes and lips. She began to make schemes for his career, she
contrived introductions she judged would be useful to him later.

Everybody found the relationship charming. Some of the more
conscientious people, it is true, pretended to think that the Reverend
Harold Benham was a first husband and long since dead, but that was all.
As a matter of fact, in his increasingly futile way he wasn't, either at
Seagate or in the Educational Supplement of the TIMES. But even the
most conscientious of us are not obliged to go to Seagate or read the
Educational Supplement of the TIMES.

Lady Marayne's plans for her son's future varied very pleasantly. She
was an industrious reader of biographies, and more particularly of the
large fair biographies of the recently contemporary; they mentioned
people she knew, they recalled scenes, each sowed its imaginative crop
upon her mind, a crop that flourished and flowered until a newer growth
came to oust it. She saw her son a diplomat, a prancing pro-consul, an
empire builder, a trusted friend of the august, the bold leader of new
movements, the saviour of ancient institutions, the youngest, brightest,
modernest of prime ministers--or a tremendously popular poet. As a rule
she saw him unmarried--with a wonderful little mother at his elbow.
Sometimes in romantic flashes he was adored by German princesses
or eloped with Russian grand-duchesses! But such fancies were HORS
D'OEUVRE. The modern biography deals with