not
going to quarrel with you. I have seen him, and oh! to see him is
perfect happiness. We won't quarrel. I know you would never harm any
one I love, would you?"

"Not as long as you love him, I suppose," was the sullen answer.

"I shall love him for ever!" she cried.

"And he?"

"For ever, too!"

"He had better."

She shrank from him. Then she laughed and put her hand on his arm. He
was merely a boy.

At the Marble Arch they hailed an omnibus, which left them close to
their shabby home in the Euston Road. It was after five o'clock, and
Sibyl had to lie down for a couple of hours before acting. Jim
insisted that she should do so. He said that he would sooner part with
her when their mother was not present. She would be sure to make a
scene, and he detested scenes of every kind.

In Sybil's own room they parted. There was jealousy in the lad's
heart, and a fierce murderous hatred of the stranger who, as it seemed
to him, had come between them. Yet, when her arms were flung round his
neck, and her fingers strayed through his hair, he softened and kissed
her with real affection. There were tears in his eyes as he went
downstairs.

His mother was waiting for him below. She grumbled at his
unpunctuality, as he entered. He made no answer, but sat down to his
meagre meal. The flies buzzed round the table and crawled over the
stained cloth. Through the rumble of omnibuses, and the clatter of
street-cabs, he could hear the droning voice devouring each minute that
was left to him.

After some time, he thrust away his plate and put his head in his
hands. He felt that he had a right to know. It should have been told
to him before, if it was as he suspected. Leaden with fear, his mother
watched him. Words dropped mechanically from her lips. A tattered
lace handkerchief twitched in her fingers. When the clock struck six,
he got up and went to the door. Then he turned back and looked at her.
Their eyes met. In hers he saw a wild appeal for mercy. It enraged
him.

"Mother, I have something to ask you," he said. Her eyes wandered
vaguely about the room. She made no answer. "Tell me the truth. I
have a right to know. Were you married to my father?"

She heaved a deep sigh. It was a sigh of relief. The terrible moment,
the moment that night and day, for weeks and months, she had dreaded,
had come at last, and yet she felt no terror. Indeed, in some measure
it was a disappointment to her.