ble gifts, and as Jim and Muriel had grown up
they had found their mother pleasant to live with, never anxious to
assert authority, and always interested in such of their pursuits as
chimed in with her own inclinations; also quite ready with sensible
advice and some sympathy when either was required of her, and showing no
annoyance at all if the advice was not followed.

It was not altogether surprising then that Jim, when he had been back at
Mountfield for three or four days, should have taken her into his
confidence. She had heard what, thanks to the Squire, every one in that
part of the county had heard, that Cicely had run off to London without
taking any clothes with her--this point always emerged--and that Dick,
and, for some as yet unexplained reason, Jim, had gone up after her. But
when Jim returned, and told her simply that Cicely was staying with
Muriel and that everything was all right, she had asked no further
questions, although she saw that there was something that she had not
been told. She had her reward when Jim, sitting in her drawing-room
after dinner, told her that he would like to talk over something with
her.

The drawing-room at Mountfield was a long, rather low room, hung with an
old French paper of nondescript grey, upon which were some water-colours
which were supposed to be valuable. The carpet was of faded green, with
ferns and roses. The curtains were of thick crimson brocade under a gilt
canopy. There was a large Chippendale mirror, undoubtedly valuable, over
the white marble mantelpiece, upon which were three great vases of blue
Worcester and some Dresden china figures. The furniture was upholstered
in crimson to match the curtains. There was an old grand piano, there
were one or two china cabinets against the walls, a white skin rug
before the fire, palms in pots, a rosewood table or two, and a low glass
bookcase with more china on the top of it. There was nothing modern, and
the chairs and sofas were not particularly comfortable. The room had
always been like that ever since Jim could remember, and his mother,
sitting upright in her low chair knitting stocking tops, also belonged
to the room and gave it a comforting air of home. She had on a black
gown and her face and neck were much redder than the skin beneath them,
but, like many women to whom rough tweeds and thick boots seem to be the
normal wear, she looked well in the more feminine attire of the evening.

"Talk away, my dear boy