u.... He's an awfully set chap ... he'd think me so beastly
soft. You see, _his_ mother's always had his father to look after
her.... So he couldn't understand how I feel about you ... being your
only male relative, and all that...."

Sophy promised, kissing the red curls again for good night.

He was quiet for about five minutes; then once more he roused.

"I've just had such a stunning idea, mother," he announced. "I want us
to write a book together ... when I know a bit more rhetoric, of course.
But we might both be thinking up a subject. Wouldn't it be jolly to have
our names printed together like that on the first page?...
'What-you-may-call-it ... by Sophy Chesney and her son Robert Cecil
Chesney....'"

"That's a beautiful idea, darling; but I'm afraid your name would have
to be signed Wychcote...."

"No.... I _choose_ to have it Chesney for our book. I am a Chesney, too,
ain't I?"

"Yes, dear; but...."

"Just for our book, mother," he pleaded. "There they'd be--our two
names--close together--long after we'd gone.... Isn't life a rummy
thing, when you come to think of it, mother?"

"Yes, dear. But try to go to sleep now...."

"All right-o...."

He snuggled closer, settling himself with a deep breath of
determination. But suddenly he exclaimed:

"Just _one_ thing more.... What do you think of 'Spun Glass' for the
title of our book, mother?"

"Well, darling--that would depend on what the book is to be about...."

"Oh ... about life in general!..." said Bobby largely. Then with the
quick drowsiness of healthy childhood he fell fast asleep before she
could answer.

But Sophy lay long awake. It seemed to her that life clung about her
like a strong, dark web, meshing every natural movement of her heart.
The idea of thrusting another man into her son's life--another
"father"--became more and more painful to her. The idea of giving up
Amaldi was unendurable. The idea of his giving up his country for her
sake revealed itself suddenly as a sacrifice too terrible for her to
accept.

The more she struggled for some egress from the clogging meshes, the
tighter they closed about her. At dawn she was still wide awake, but
when Bobby and his grandmother set out for Murano at eight o'clock she
was sleeping like one drugged.

LIII

She did not wake until eleven, and by the time that she was dressed it
was after twelve. Recalling what Lady Wychcote had said about lunching
with Bobby at Murano, she tho