at the door, rather confused and hesitating: 'Oh yes, M. Paul was
in, but--but--'

The unhappy mother, haunted ever since yesterday by the same horrible
idea, pictured her son lying in his blood, crossed at a bound the
passage and three steps, and burst breathless into the study. Paul was
standing at work before his desk in the bay window. One pane of the
stained glass was open, to throw light upon the half-finished sketch and
the box of colours, while the rest of the perfumed apartment was steeped
in a soft subdued glow. Absorbed in his work he seemed not to have heard
the carriage stop, the bell ring twice, and a lady's dress flit along
the passage. He had: but it was not his mother's shabby black dress that
he expected, it was not for her that he posed at his desk, nor for her
that he had provided the delicate bouquets of fine irises and tulips, or
the sweetmeats and elegant decanters upon the light table.

The way in which as he looked round he said, 'Oh, it's you,' would have
been significant to anyone but his mother. She did not notice it, lost
in the delight of seeing him there, perfectly well, perfectly dressed.
She said not a word, but tearing her glove open she triumphantly handed
him the cheque. He did not ask her where she got it, or what she had
given for it, but put his arms round her, taking care not to crumple the
paper. 'Dear old Mum'; that was all he said, but it was enough for
her, though her child was not as overjoyed as she expected, but rather
embarrassed. 'Where are you going next?' he said thoughtfully, with the
cheque in his hand.

'Where next?' she repeated, looking at him with disappointment. Why, she
had only just come, and made certain of spending a few minutes with him;
but she could go if she was in the way. 'Why, I think I shall go to the
Princess's. But I am in no hurry; she wearies me with her everlasting
lamentation for Herbert. You think she has done with it, and then it
takes a fresh start.'

Paul was on the point of saying something, which he did not say.

'Well,' he said, 'Mammy, will you do something for me? I am expecting
somebody. Go and cash this for me, and let the agent have the money in
return for my drafts. You don't mind?'

She did not indeed. If she went about his business she would seem to be
with him still. While he was signing his name, the mother looked round
the room. There were charming carpets and curtains, and nothing to mark
the profession of the occupant