"I heard your mother say, Miss Wickham, that you are both fond of the theatre. Now I happen to have secured, through a friend, three tickets for the first night of Macbeth. I should be so glad if you would allow me to take you and Mrs. Wickham to the Lyceum." "And I should like it, Westenra," said mother--she came up while he was speaking. Miss Armstrong happened to be standing near, and I am sure she overheard. Her face turned a dull red, she walked a step or two away. I thought for a moment. I should have greatly preferred to refuse; I was beginning, I could not tell why, to have an uneasy feeling with regard to Mr. Randolph--there was a sort of mystery about his staying in the house, and why did the Duchess know him, and why did she call him Jim. But my mother's gentle face and the longing in her eyes made me reply-- "If mother likes it, of course I shall like it. Thank you very much for asking us." "I hope you will enjoy it," was his reply, "I am glad you will come." He did not allude again to the matter, but talked on indifferent subjects. We were to go to the Lyceum on the following evening. The next day early I went into mother's room. Mother was not at all as strong as I could have wished. She had a slight cough, and there was a faded, fagged sort of look about her, a look I had never seen when we lived in Mayfair. She was subject to palpitations of the heart too, and often turned quite faint when she went through any additional exertion. These symptoms had begun soon after our arrival at 17 Graham Square. She had never had them in the bygone days, when her friends came to see her and she went to see them. Was mother too old for this transplanting? Was it a little rough on her? Thoughts like these made me very gentle whenever I was in my dear mother's presence, and I was willing and longing to forget myself, if only she might be happy. "What kind of day is it, Westenra?" she said the moment I put in an appearance. She was not up yet, she was lying in bed supported by pillows. Her dear, fragile beautiful face looked something like the most delicate old porcelain. She was sipping a cup of strong soup, which Jane Mullins had just sent up to her. "O Mummy!" I said, kissing her frantically, "are you ill? What is the matter?" "No, my darling, I am quite as well as usual," she answered, "a little weak, but that is nothing. I am tired sometimes, Westenra." "Tired, but you don't do a great deal," I said. "That's just it, my love, I do too little. If I had more to do I should be better." "More visiting, I suppose, and that sort of thing?" I said. "Yes," she answered very gently, "more visiting, more variety, more exchange of ideas--if it were not for Mr. Randolph." "You like him?" I said. "Don't you, my darling?" "I don't know, mother, I am not sure about him. Who is he?" "A nice gentlemanly fellow." "Mother, I sometimes think he is other than what he seems, we know nothing whatever about him."