and come with me to my own house. I am in a false position
here. I will have it no longer. Let him have what is his right. I am
resolved that he and I shall not sleep again under the same roof."

"Theo, you cannot mean what you say. You can't be so---- If Geoff has
done anything wrong, he will beg your pardon. Oh, what is it, what is
it?" She did not ask her son for his version of the story with her lips,
but she did with her eyes, which exasperated Theo more and more.

"It does not matter what it is," he said. "It is not any temporary
business, to be got over with an apology. It is just this, that you
won't face what is inevitable. And it is inevitable. You must choose
between him and me."

Geoff had been overwhelmed by this sudden storm. He was so young to
play the hero's part. He was not above crying when such a tempest burst
upon him, and had hard ado to keep back his tears. But when he met his
mother's anguished imploring look, Geoff felt in his little forlorn
heart a courage which was more than man. "Warrender," he said, biting
his lips to keep them from quivering,--"Warrender, I say. As soon as the
holidays are over, I--I'll go to school. I'll--be out of the way."

"Oh, Geoff!" Lady Markland said, with a heartrending cry.

"It's--it's right enough, mamma; it's--quite right. I'm too old. I'm
too--Warrender, I'll be going back to school in about six weeks." Alas,
the holidays were just begun. "Won't that do?" said little Geoff, with
horrible twitchings of his face, intended to keep back the tears.

His mother went up to him, and kissed him passionately, and put him away
with her hand. "Go," she said. "Geoff, go, and wait for me in your room.
We must talk--alone; we must talk alone. Go. Go."

Geoff would have given much to throw himself into her arms, to support
and to be supported by her: but the child was moved beyond himself. He
obeyed her without a word, turning his back upon the combat, though he
would fain have stood by her in it. Warrender had taken no part in this;
he had made no response to Geoff's appeal. He was walking up and down
with all the signs of impatience, pale with passion and opposition. He
paused, however, as the boy went away, a solitary forlorn little figure
stealing along the avenue in silence, too dutiful even to look back. Lady
Markland stood, too, and looked after him, with a pang of compunction,
of compassion, of heart-yearning, which it would be impossible to put
into words. Her