n on his face was so sad and
puzzling. It filled him with a sort of remorse, so that he got up and
went and sat on the arm of his father's chair. From there he could not
see his face; and again he saw Fleur--in his mother's hands, slim and
white on the keys, in the profile of her face and her powdery hair; and
down the long room in the open window where the May night walked outside.

When he went up to bed his mother came into his room. She stood at the
window, and said:

"Those cypresses your grandfather planted down there have done
wonderfully. I always think they look beautiful under a dropping moon.
I wish you had known your grandfather, Jon."

"Were you married to father when he was alive?" asked Jon suddenly.

"No, dear; he died in '92--very old--eighty-five, I think."

"Is Father like him?"

"A little, but more subtle, and not quite so solid."

"I know, from grandfather's portrait; who painted that?"

"One of June's 'lame ducks.' But it's quite good."

Jon slipped his hand through his mother's arm. "Tell me about the family
quarrel, Mum."

He felt her arm quivering. "No, dear; that's for your Father some day,
if he thinks fit."

"Then it was serious," said Jon, with a catch in his breath.

"Yes." And there was a silence, during which neither knew whether the
arm or the hand within it were quivering most.

"Some people," said Irene softly, "think the moon on her back is evil; to
me she's always lovely. Look at those cypress shadows! Jon, Father says
we may go to Italy, you and I, for two months. Would you like?"

Jon took his hand from under her arm; his sensation was so sharp and so
confused. Italy with his mother! A fortnight ago it would have been
perfection; now it filled him with dismay; he felt that the sudden
suggestion had to do with Fleur. He stammered out:

"Oh! yes; only--I don't know. Ought I--now I've just begun? I'd like to
think it over."

Her voice answered, cool and gentle:

"Yes, dear; think it over. But better now than when you've begun farming
seriously. Italy with you! It would be nice!"

Jon put his arm round her waist, still slim and firm as a girl's.

"Do you think you ought to leave Father?" he said feebly, feeling very
mean.

"Father suggested it; he thinks you ought to see Italy at least before
you settle down to anything."

The sense of meanness died in Jon; he knew, yes--he knew--that his father
and his mother were not speaking frankly, no mor