Amabel looked up. Lady Elliston met her eyes. "I came today to tell you, Amabel. I felt sure you did not know. There is no reason at all, now, why you should dread coming out into the world--with Augustine. You need fear no meetings. You did not know that he was dead." "He?" "Yes. He. Paul Quentin." Amabel, gazing at her, said nothing. "He died in Italy, last week. He was married, you know, quite happily; an ordinary sort of person; she had money; he rather let his work go. But they were happy; a large family; a villa on a hill somewhere; pictures, bric-a-brac and bohemian intellectualism. You knew of his marriage?" "Yes; I knew." The tears had risen to Lady Elliston's eyes before that stricken, ashen face; she looked away, murmuring: "I wanted to tell you, when we were alone. It might have come as such an ugly shock, if you were unprepared. But, now, there is no danger anymore. And you will come out, Amabel?" "No;--never.--It was never that." "But what was it then?" Amabel had risen and was looking around her blindly. "It was.--I have no place but here.--Forgive me--I must go. I can't talk any more." "Yes; go; do go and lie down." Lady Elliston, rising too, put an arm around her shoulders and took her hand. "I'll come again and see you. I am going up to town for a night or so on Tuesday, but I bring Peggy down here for the next week-end. I'll see you then.--Ah, here is Augustine, and tea. He will give me my tea and you must sleep off your headache. Your poor mother has a very bad headache, Augustine. I have tried her. Goodbye, dear, go and rest." VI An hour ago Augustine had found his mother in tears; now he found her beyond them. He gave her his arm, and, outside in the hall, prepared to mount the stairs with her; but, shaking her head, trying, with miserable unsuccess, to smile, she pointed him back to the drawing-room and to his duties of host. "Ah, she is very tired. She does not look well," said Lady Elliston. "I am glad to see that you take good care of her." "She is usually very well," said Augustine, standing over the tea-tray that had been put on the table between him and Lady Elliston. "Let's see: what do you have? Sugar? milk?" "No sugar; milk, please. It's such a great pleasure to me to meet your mother again." Augustine made no reply to this, handing her her cup and the plate of bread and butter. "She was one of the loveliest girls I have ever seen," Lady Elliston went on, helping herself. "She looked like a Madonna--and a cowslip.--And she looks like that more than ever." She had paused for a moment as an uncomfortable recollection came to her. It was Paul Quentin who had said that: at her house.