stood as mother. All the interval was forgotten and there they were
still, mother and son.

When at last he raised himself he found that her eyes were dim with
tears. As to himself, he felt strangely quieted and composed. He pulled
a chair to the bedside and sat down, not facing her, but sideways, and
he rested his elbow on the edge of her pillow his other hand resting on
hers.

"Did you get through all you wanted to, in Town?" she asked, smiling
through her tears.

"Lena!" he said in a low voice, "you want to spare me. You always do."

His voice overwhelmed her. His humility pierced her like a sword.

"It was all my fault, dear," she began; "entirely my fault."

"No," he said, in a low emphatic voice.

"It was." She reiterated this with almost a sullen persistence.

"How could it possibly be your fault?" he said, with deep self-reproach.

"It was," she said, "though I cannot make you understand it. Jim, you
must forget it all, for my sake. You must forget it at once, you have
things to do."

"I have things to do," he said. "I seemed in danger of forgetting those
things," he said huskily. "As to forgetting, that is a difficult
matter."

"You must put it aside," she said, and now she raised herself on her
pillows and stared anxiously into his face. "You made a mistake such as
the best man _would_ make," she argued passionately. "How can a strong
man suspect weakness in others? You know how it is, we suspect in others
virtues and vices that we have ourselves. You know what I mean, dear. A
drunkard always suspects other men of wanting to drink!" and she laughed
a little, and her voice trembled with an excitement she found it
difficult to suppress. "Thieves always suspect others of thieving. An
amorous man sees sex motives in everything. Do you suppose an honourable
man doesn't also suspect others of honourable intentions?"

He made no reply.

"Besides, you have always been eager to think the best of women. You've
credited them, even with mental gifts that they haven't got! You have
been over-loyal to them all your life! And now"--here Lady Dashwood put
out her hand and laid it on his arm as if to compel him to agree--"and
now you are suffering for it, or rather you have suffered. You thought
you were doing your duty, that you ought to marry. You were right; you
ought to marry, and I, just at that moment, thrust somebody forward who
looked innocent and helpless. And how could you tell? Of course you
couldn't