little time, while the first glamour
lasted, he might be contented enough, but he would weary in the end. He
would surely weary, and then--how would you feel? When you saw him
restless and discontented; longing to leave you and fly back to his old
life, would you feel no remorse? Love's young dream does not last for
ever, my pretty child."

"No," said Elma, quietly; "dreams don't last, but sometimes the
awakening is better! You have known Geoffrey all his life, Mrs
Greville, and it seems presumptuous to pretend that I know him even
better, but I can--_feel_! You believe he would tire of me, and long to
get back to his old luxurious life. You think he would love me very
much for a little time and then be indifferent and careless, and that I
should feel it was my own fault; but you are wrong. Indeed, indeed, you
are wrong! He is your son--has he ever failed you? You say yourself
that he has been good and true. You would trust him for your own
future. Do you think he would be less loyal to his own wife? I am not
at all afraid. I am like you--I trust Geoffrey!"

As she finished speaking she turned towards her lover and held out her
hand towards him, and in two strides Geoffrey was by her side; was on
his knees beside her, holding that little hand pressed between both his
own, turning to look at his mother with triumphant eyes; with eyes
ashine with something deeper than triumph.

Geoffrey on his knees! Tears in Geoffrey's eyes! Madame stared in
amaze, then broke into a sudden excited laugh.

"Bravo, Elma! Bravo, Geoffrey! Congratulations, my dears. Thank
heaven you have a mother who knows when she is well beaten!"

She rose from her seat and crossed the room to where the girl sat.
"Bravo, little Elma! I like to see a good fighting spirit. You will
make Geoffrey a charming wife, and I shall be proud of my daughter."
She took Elma's disengaged hand and pressed it between her own, and the
girl smiled a happy response, but Geoffrey was oblivious of her
presence, his eyes fixed upon his love's face, with the rapt, adoring
gaze with which a knight of old may have gazed upon the vision of the
grail. His mother looked at him, and her lips quivered. Artificial and
frivolous though she was, her only son was dear to her heart. Since the
hour of his birth he had been to her as a pivot round which the world
revolved. Her son--the last of the Grevilles who had owned the Manor
since the days of the Tudors. To