Mrs. Romayne had laid down her literature some moments before, and had been lying looking at Julian with that curious expression in her eyes which would creep into them now and again when they rested on the good-looking young figure, and which harmonised so ill with the shallow, vivacious prettiness of the rest of her face. She spoke, however, with her usual light laugh at herself, and Julian laughed too as he threw down his magazine and turned towards her. “It is an age, isn’t it?” he said. During the final agony of preparation for the bazaar, Julian had been in immense request. Not that he was one of the devoted half-dozen, or that he did much definite work; but he was always ready to discuss any lady’s private fad with her for any length of time, and to rush all over London about nothing. His exertions, and the exhaustion engendered thereby, had rendered necessary a great deal of recreation at the club. He had repaired thither very frequently of late, instead of escorting his mother home on the conclusion of their tale of parties for the night. “It is a comfort to think that it is so nearly over!” observed Mrs. Romayne carelessly. It is never worth while, in the world in which Mrs. Romayne moved, to express more than half your meaning in words, and Julian quite understood that she alluded, not to the domestic hour, but to the season. Her words were not prompted by any actual weariness of the round of life she characterised as “it,” but the sentiment was in the air--the fashionable air, that is to say. She and Julian, in common with the greater part of their world, were leaving London at the end of the week. “It has been awfully jolly!” said Julian, leaning back in his chair and resting his head against his loosely locked hands. “I had no idea that life was such a first-rate business!” His mother smiled, and there was a strange touch of triumph in her smile. “It is a first-rate business,” she assented, “if one lives it among the right people and in the right position. I imagine you see by this time that it isn’t much use otherwise!” He laughed as though his appreciation of her words rendered them almost a truism to him, and there was a moment’s silence. It was broken by Julian. “It costs a lot of money,” he said, in a casual, indefinite way, but with a quick glance at his mother. “Well, it isn’t cheap, certainly,” was the laughing answer: “but I think we shall manage.” Then noticing something a little deprecating about his pose and expression, Mrs. Romayne added, with mock reprehension, “You’re not going to ask me to raise your allowance, you extravagant boy?” Julian moved, and leaning forward, clasped his hands round one knee as if the uncomfortable and transitory pose assisted explanation. He laughed back at her, but he was looking nevertheless somewhat ashamed of himself.