him closely, but his heart was no longer worn upon his
sleeve, and finding his face non-committal, she went on slowly, feeling
her way carefully as she advanced.

"Perhaps it is not too late now, my son. Don't let my prejudices stand
in your way again, for you are still young enough to be happy, and I
shall be truly glad to welcome any wife--any!"

Verdayne did not reply. His eyes were studying the pattern of the rug
beneath his feet. His mother's face flushed with embarrassment at the
delicacy of the subject, but she stumbled on bravely.

"Paul," she said, "Isabella is young yet, and you are not so very old.
It may not, even now, be too late to hold a little grandchild on my knee
before I die. I have been so fond of Paul--he is so very like you when
you were a boy--and have wished--oh, you don't know how a mother feels,
Paul--I have often wished that he were your son, or that I might have
had a grandson just like him. Do you know, Paul, I have often fancied
that your son, had you had one, would have been very like this dear
Boy."

Verdayne choked back a sob. If his mother could only understand as some
women would have understood! If he could have told her the truth! But,
no, he never could. Even now it would have been a terrible shock to her,
and she could never have forgiven, never held up her head again, if she
had known.

As for marrying Isabella--could he? After all, was it right to let the
old name die out for want of an heir? Was it just to his father? And
Isabella would not expect to be made love to. There was never that sort
of nonsense about her, and she would make all due allowance for his age
and seriousness.

His mother felt she had been very kind and generous in renouncing the
old objection of twenty years' standing, and, too, she felt that it was
only right, after spoiling her son's life for so long, to do her best to
atone for the mistake. It must be confessed she could not see what there
was about Isabella to hold the love and loyalty of a man like Paul for
so long, but then--and she sighed at the thought of the wasted
years--"Love is blind," they say--and so's a lover! And her motherly
heart longed for grandchildren--Paul's children--as it had always longed
for them.

Paul Verdayne sat opposite his penitent mother and pondered. The scent
from a bowl of red roses on his mother's table almost overpowered him
with memories.

He thought of the couch of deep red roses on which he had lain, caresse