When tea had been taken away he walked up and down the room quickly,
pausing now and then for further deliberation. But he decided that he
would not go up to his mother. He went on walking for a long time. Then
he took a book and read until the dressing-bell for dinner rang.

When he went upstairs to dress he paused outside his mother's door, as
she had paused outside his, and listened. He heard no sound. He stood
still there for some moments before lightly rapping on the door. "Who is
it?" came his mother's voice. "I; Augustine. How are you? You are coming
down?"

"Not tonight," she answered; "I have a very bad headache."

"But let me have something sent up." After a moment his mother's voice
said very sweetly; "Of course, dear." And she added "I shall be all
right tomorrow."

The voice sounded natural--yet not quite natural; too natural, perhaps,
Augustine reflected. Its tone remained with him as something disturbing
and prolonged itself in memory like a familiar note strung to a queer,
forced pitch, that vibrated on and on until it hurt.

After his solitary meal he took up his book again in the drawing-room.
He read with effort and concentration, his brows knotted; his young
face, thus controlled to stern attention, was at once vigilant for outer
impressions and absorbed in the inner interest. Once or twice he looked
up, as a coal fell with a soft crash from the fire, as a thin creeper
tapped sharply on the window pane. His mother's room was above the
drawing-room and while he read he was listening; but he heard no
footsteps.

Suddenly, dim, yet clear, came another sound, a sound familiar, though
so rare; wheels grinding on the gravel drive at the other side of the
house. Then, loud and startling at that unaccustomed hour, the old hall
bell clanged through the house.

Augustine found himself leaning forward, breathing quickly, his book
half-closed. At first he did not know what he was listening for or why
his body should be tingling with excitement and anger. He knew a moment
later. There was a step in the hall, a voice. All his life Augustine had
known them, had waited for them, had hated them. Sir Hugh was back
again.

Of course he was back again, soon,--as he had promised in the tone of
mastery. But his mother had told him not to come; she had told him not
to come, and in a tone that meant more than his. Did he not know?--Did
he not understand?

"No, dear Hugh, not soon.--I will write."--Augustine spr