t I have too much,' she said, in sudden anger.
'You have no heart; you are a cruel, ungrateful boy! Is there anything
I have not done to make you happy, ever since you were a baby? Look at
your position! You are a celebrated writer, a critic! Other writers are
green with jealousy and fear of you! And why? Because I made up my mind
that you should be a great man, and sent you to school and the
university instead of keeping you to myself, at home, always pressed
against my heart! Is not that the greatest sacrifice that a mother can
make, to send her child to college, to be left alone herself, always
wondering whether he is catching cold and is getting enough to eat, and
is not being led away by wicked little boys? Ah, you do not know! You
can never be a mother!'

This was unanswerable, but Lushington really looked sorry for her, as
if it were his fault.

'And what have you given me in return for it all? How have you repaid
me for the days of anxiety and nights of fever all the time when you
were at those terrible studies? I ask you that! How have you rewarded
me? You will not take money from me. I go on making more and more, and
you will not spend it. Oh, it is not to be believed! I shall die of
grief!'

Madame Bonanni put one fat hand out from under the furs, and pressed a
podgy finger to each eyelid in succession by way of stopping the very
genuine tears that threatened her rouged cheeks with watery
destruction.

'Mother, please don't!' cried Lushington, in helpless distress. 'You
know that I can't take money from you!'

'Oh, I know, I know! That is the worst of it--I know! It is not because
you are proud of earning your own living, it's because you're ashamed
of me!'

Lushington rose again, and began to walk up and down, bending his head
and glancing at her now and then.

'Why will you always go back to that question?' he asked, and his tone
showed how much he resented it. 'You cannot unlive your life. Don't
make me say more than that, for you don't know how it hurts to say that
much. Indeed you don't!'

He went to the closed window and looked out, turning away from her. She
stretched out her hand and pulled at his coat timidly, as a dog pulls
his master's clothes to attract his attention. He turned his head a
little.

'I've tried to live differently, Tom,' she said. 'Of late years I've
tried.'

Her voice was low and unsteady.

'I know it,' he said just above a whisper, and he turned to the
window-pane