Katherine replied proudly.

Richard's hand closed hard upon hers.

"Thank you," he said. "You were made to be a mother of heroes, not of a
useless log like me.--And that's just why I want to be good. And to be
good I want a wife, that I may have that boy. I could keep straight for
him, mother, though I'm afraid I can't keep straight for myself, and
simply because it's right, much longer. I want him to have just all
that I am denied. I want him to restore the balance, both for you and
for me. I may have something of a career myself, perhaps, in politics
or something. It's possible, but that will come later, if it comes at
all. And then it would be for his sake. What I want first is the boy,
to give me an object and keep up my pluck, and keep me steady. I,
giving him life, shall find my life in him, be paid for my wretched
circumscribed existence by his goodly and complete one. He may be
clever or not--I'd rather, of course, he was not quite a dunce--but I
really don't very much mind, so long as he isn't an outrageous fool, if
he's only an entirely sound and healthy human animal."

Richard stretched himself upon the bed, straightened the sheet across
his chest, and clasped his hands under his head again. The desolation
had gone out of his eyes. He seemed to look afar into the future, and
therein see manly satisfaction and content. His voice was vibrant,
rising to a kind of chant.

"He shall run, and he shall swim, he shall fence, and he shall row," he
said. "He shall learn all gallant sports, as becomes an English
gentleman. And he shall ride,--not as I ride, God forbid! like a monkey
strapped on a dog at a fair, but as a centaur, as a young demigod. We
will set him, stark naked, on a bare-backed horse, and see that he's
clean-limbed, perfect, without spot or blemish, from head to heel."

And once more Katherine Calmady held her peace, somewhat amazed,
somewhat tremulous, since it seemed to her the young man was drawing a
cheque upon the future which might, only too probably, be dishonoured
and returned marked no account. For who dare say that this child would
ever come to the birth, or coming, what form it would bear? Yet, even
so, she rejoiced in her son and the high spirit he displayed, while the
instinct of romance which inspired his speech touched an answering
chord in, and uplifted, her.

By now the brief June night was nearly spent. The blind still creaked
against the open window sash, but the thud of horse-h