ng Blent. If distrust of
his mother entered at all into his decision, if he feared any indiscreet
talk from her, he gave no hint of it. It was enough that the girl had
some odious pretensions which he could and would defeat but could not
ignore--pretensions for his mind, in her own she had none.

The sun had sunk behind the tower, and Lady Tristram sat in a low chair
by the river, enjoying the cool of the evening. The Blent murmured as it
ran; the fishes were feeding; the midges were out to feed, but they did
not bite Lady Tristram; they never did; the fact had always been a
comfort to her, and may perhaps be allowed here to assume a mildly
allegorical meaning. If the cool of the evening may do the same, it will
serve very well to express the stage of life and of feeling to which no
more than the beginning of middle age had brought her. It was rather
absurd, but she did not want to do or feel very much more; and it seemed
as though her wishes were to be respected. A certain distance from
things marked her now; only Harry was near to her, only Harry's triumph
was very important. She had outrun her vital income and mortgaged future
years; if foreclosure threatened, she maintained her old power of taking
no heed of disagreeable things, however imminent. She was still very
handsome and wished to go on being that to the end; fortunately
fragility had always been her style and always suited her.

Harry leant his elbow on a great stone vase which stood on a pedestal
and held a miniature wilderness of flowers.

"I lunched at Fairholme," he was saying. "The paint's all wet still, of
course, and the doors stick a bit, but I liked the family. He's genuine,
she's homely, and Janie's a good girl. They were very civil."

"I suppose so."

"Not overwhelmed," he added, as though wishing to correct a wrong
impression which yet might reasonably have arisen.

"I didn't mean that. I've met Mr Iver, and he wasn't at all
overwhelmed. Mrs Iver was--out--when I called, and I was--out--when she
called." Lady Tristram was visibly, although not ostentatiously,
allowing for the prejudices of a moral middle-class.

"Young Bob Broadley was there--you know who I mean? At Mingham Farm, up
above the Pool."

"I know--a handsome young man."

"I forgot he was handsome. Of course you know him then! What a pity I'm
not handsome, mother!"

"Oh, you've the air, though," she observed contentedly. "Is he after
Janie Iver?"

"So I imagine. I'm not s