ing of them now?"

"No"--he again hesitated, and again ate his word--"that is--yes. I met
them some weeks ago. But I don't think we are likely to see much of them
after our marriage."

He would have given the world to feel that his voice was betraying
nothing of the discomfort he was feeling.

"I hope not, Hugh. Mrs. Bellair would not be a suitable friend for
Winifred--or--or for any young married woman."

"Mother!" Elwyn only uttered the one word, but anger, shame, and
self-reproach were struggling in the tone in which he uttered that one
word. "You are wrong, indeed, you are quite wrong--I mean about Fanny
Bellair."

"My dear," she said gently, but her voice quivered, "I do not think I am
wrong. Indeed, I know I am right." Neither had ever seen the other so
moved. "My dear," again she said the two quiet words that may mean so
much or so little, "you know that I never spoke to you of the matter. I
tried never even to think of it, and yet, Hugh, it made me very anxious,
very unhappy. But to-night, looking at that sweet girl, I felt I must
speak."

She waited a moment, and then added in a constrained voice, "I do not
judge you, Hugh."

"No!" he cried, "but you judge her! And it's so unfair, mother--so
horribly unfair!"

He had turned round; he was forcing his mother to look at his now moody,
unhappy face.

Mrs. Elwyn shrank back and closed her lips tightly. Her expression
recalled to her son the look which used to come over her face when, as a
petted, over cared-for only child, he asked her for something which she
believed it would be bad for him to have. From that look there had been,
in old days, no appeal. But now he felt that he must say something more.
His manhood demanded it of him.

"Mother," he said earnestly, "as you have spoken to me of the matter, I
feel I must have it out with you! Please believe me when I say that you
are being unjust--indeed, cruelly so. I was to blame all through--from
the very beginning to the very end."

"You must allow me," she said in a low tone, "to be the judge of that,
Hugh." She added deprecatingly, "This discussion is painful, and--and
very distasteful to me."

Her son leant back, and choked down the words he was about to utter. He
knew well that nothing he could say would change or even modify his
mother's point of view. But oh! why had she done this? Why had she
chosen to-night, of all nights, to rend the veil which had always hung,
so decently, between them. He