ning,
after 'little breakfast,' as we say in India, he sought me in the room I
had set aside to be particularly my own.

Again I was writing to John, but this time I waited for precisely his
interruption. I had got no further than 'My dearest husband,' and my
pen-handle was a fringe.

'Another fine day,' I said, as if the old, old Indian joke could give
him ease, poor man!

'Yes,' said he, 'we are having lovely weather.'

He had forgotten that it was a joke. Then he lapsed into silence while I
renewed my attentions to my pen.

'I say,' he said at last, with so strained a look about his mouth that
it was almost a contortion, 'I haven't done it, you know.'

'No,' I responded, cheerfully, 'and you're not going to. Is that it?
Well!'

'Frankly--' said he.

'Dear me, yes! Anything else between you and me would be grotesque,' I
interrupted, 'after all these years.'

'I don't think it would be a success,' he said, looking at me resolutely
with his clear blue eyes, in which still lay, alas! the possibility of
many delusions.

'No,' I said, 'I never did, you know. But the prospect had begun to
impose upon me.'

'To say how right you were would seem, under the circumstances, the most
hateful form of flattery.'

'Yes,' I said, 'I think I can dispense with your verbal endorsement.'
I felt a little bitter. It was, of course, better that the connoisseur
should have discovered the flaw before concluding the transaction; but
although I had pointed it out myself I was not entirely pleased to have
the article returned.

'I am infinitely ashamed that it should have taken me all these
days--day after day and each contributory--to discover what you saw so
easily and so completely.'

'You forget that I am her mother,' I could not resist the temptation of
saying.

'Oh, for God's sake don't jeer! Please be absolutely direct, and tell
me if you have reason to believe that to the extent of a thought, of a
breath--to any extent at all--she cares.'

He was, I could see, very deeply moved; he had not arrived at this point
without trouble and disorder not lightly to be put on or off. Yet I did
not hurry to his relief, I was still possessed by a vague feeling of
offense. I reflected that any mother would be, and I quite plumed myself
upon my annoyance. It was so satisfactory, when one had a daughter, to
know the sensations of even any mother. Nor was it soothing to remember
that the young man's whole attitude towards Cecily had