asked anxiously. "What is the matter with
you?"

"Nothing. I am only tired. It is a long journey, you know,--and the
walk from the station. Indeed, it is nothing else. I am quite well."

His mother resumed her seat. She had risen in sudden alarm. Her son's
face had frightened her.

"You look just as your poor father used to look sometimes," she said
softly. "It always frightened me. It was as though you had a pain
somewhere, or had suddenly seen a ghost. You are sure you are well?"

"Quite, mother! You need have no fear. Arthur and I have your
constitution, I think."

His tone was deeper, almost hollow. He still kept his chair back
amongst the shadows. Mrs. de Vaux was only partially satisfied.

"I am afraid you have been keeping too late hours, Paul, or reading
too much. Lord Westover was saying the other day that you were in a
very Bohemian set--journalists and artists, and those sort of people.
I am afraid they keep awful hours."

"Lord Westover knows nothing about it," Paul answered wearily.
"Ordinary London society would tire me to death in a fortnight. There
is another class of people, though, whose headquarters are in London,
far more cultured, and quite as exclusive, with whom association is a
far greater distinction. I can go anywhere in the first set, because
I am Paul de Vaux, of Vaux Abbey, and have forty thousand a year. I
am permitted to enter the other only as the author of an unfashionable
novel, which a few of them have thought leniently of. Which seem the
worthier conditions?"

"I am answered, Paul. Of course, in a sense, you are right. I am
an old woman, and the twaddle of a London drawing-room would fall
strangely upon my ears now, but I had my share of it before Arthur was
born. If I were a man, I should want variety,--a little sauce,--and
you are right to seek for it. And now, won't you go and have a bath,
and change your things. You still look pale, and I think it would
refresh you. Shall I ring for Reynolds? I suppose you have not brought
your own man?"

He stretched out his hand, and arrested her fingers upon the bell. "In
a moment, mother. It is so comfortable here, and I really think it is
my favourite room."

He looked round approvingly. It was a curious, hexagonal chamber, with
an oak-beamed ceiling, curving into a dome. The walls were hung with
a wonderful tapestry of a soft, rich colour, and every piece of
furniture in the room was of the Louis Quinze period. There was
scarce