emulous laugh. "Are you becoming a flirt in your
old age?"

"It appears so," said John. And then he added, "That aphorism, which
struck you as it struck me, Elinor, by its good sense--about the heir to
a peerage--is really her production, and not mine."

"Miss Dolly's? And what was the aphorism, Uncle John?" cried Philip.

"No, it was not Miss Dolly's, my young man. It was the mother's, and so
of course does not interest you any more."

It did not as a matter of fact: the old lady was supremely indifferent
to Pippo; but as he looked up saying something else which did not bear
upon the subject, it occurred to the boy, as it will sometimes occur by
the merest chance to a young observer, to notice his mother. She caught
his eye somehow in the most accidental way; and Pippo was too well
acquainted with her looks not to perceive that there was a thrill in
every line of her countenance, a slight nervous tremble in her hands
and entire person, such as was in no way to be accounted for (he thought)
by anything that had been said or done. There was nothing surely to
disquiet her in dining at Uncle John's, the three alone, not even one
other guest to fill up the vacant side of the table. Philip had himself
thought that Uncle John might have asked some one to meet them. He should
have remembered that he himself, Philip, was now of an age to dine out,
and see a little society, and go into the world. But what in the name
of all that was wonderful was there in this entertainment to agitate his
mother? And John Tatham had a look--which Philip did not understand--the
look of a man who was successful in argument, who was almost crushing an
opponent. It was as if a duel had been going on between them, and the
man was the victor, which, as was natural, immediately threw Philip
violently on the other side.

"You're not well, mother," he said.

"Do you think not, Pippo? Well, perhaps you are right. London is too
much for me. I am a country bird," said Elinor, with smiling yet
trembling lips.

"You shall not go to the theatre if you are not up to it," said the boy
in his imperious way.

She gave him an affectionate look, and then she looked across the table
at John. What did that look mean? There was a faint smile in it: and
there was a great deal which Philip did not understand, things understood
by Uncle John--who was after all what you might call an outsider, no
more--and not by him, her son! Could anything be so monstrous? Phili