She tried evidently for her usual manner, and succeeded inasmuch as Julian noticed nothing beyond. But beneath the surface there was something not wholly to be suppressed--something which looked out of her eyes, trembled in her voice, lingered in her touch as she laid her hand on his arm; something which, taken in conjunction with the shreds of affectation with which she strove to cover it, and with the boy’s profound unconsciousness, was as pathetic as it was beautiful and strange. She drew him into his own little room, and then with a forced laugh at herself she pushed him gently into a chair, and insisted on waiting upon him--bringing him cigar, matches, ash-tray--anything she could think of to add to his comfort, laughing all the time at him and at herself, and hugging those shreds of affectation close. But there was that about her, if there had been any one to see and understand, which made her one with all the many mothers since the world began who, with their hearts aching and bleeding with impotent pity and love, have tried to find some outlet for their yearning in the strange instinct for service which goes always hand in hand with mother love as with no other love on earth. She lit his match at last, and then knelt down beside his chair. “My dearest,” she said, “my dearest, you shall have that two hundred--to-morrow if you like! You did not think me vexed about it, did you? You know I only want you to be happy, Julian, don’t you?” Julian laid down his cigar with a merry laugh. “I should be a fool if I didn’t!” he answered, patting her hand with boyish affection. “It’s awfully good of you, dear, and I’m frightfully grateful. I won’t make such a fool of myself again.” Mrs. Romayne put up her hand quickly. “Don’t promise, Julian!” she said in a strange breathless way, “you might--you might forget, you know, and then perhaps you wouldn’t like to tell me! And I want to know! I always want to know!” She stopped abruptly, an almost agonised appeal in her eyes. She was still kneeling at his side, with her eyes fixed on his face; and suddenly, abruptly, almost as though the words forced themselves from her against her will, she said, with a slight catch in her voice: “Julian, I met Fräulein Schmitz to-day!” He met her eyes for a moment, his own questioning and uncomprehending; then gradually there stole over his face recollection, vague at first, which became as it grew definite rather shamefaced, rather annoyed, and rather amused. “Oh!” he said; his tone was light and daring enough, though a touch of genuine shame and embarrassment lurked in it. “Oh, I call that hard lines!” He was smiling daringly into her face with an acceptance of the situation that was perfectly frank. His mother’s hands, as they rested on the arm of his chair, were tightly wrung together, and her eyes never stirred from his face. “Why?” she said rather hoarsely, “why did you?”