"Yes," Augustine assented, pleased, "she does look like a cowslip; she is so pale and golden and tranquil. It's funny you should say so," he went on, "for I've often thought it; but with me it's an association of ideas, too. Those meadows over there, beyond our lawn, are full of cowslips in Spring and ever since I can remember we have picked them there together." "How sweet"; Lady Elliston was still a little confused, by her blunder, and by his words. "What a happy life you and your mother must have had, cloistered here. I've been telling your mother that it's like a cloister. I've been scolding her a little for shutting herself up in it. And now that I have this chance of talking to you I do very much want to say that I hope you will bring her out a little more." "Bring her out? Where?" Augustine inquired. "Into the world--the world she is so fitted to adorn. It's ridiculous this--this fad of hers," said Lady Elliston. "Is it a fad?" Augustine asked, but with at once a lightness and distance of manner. "Of course. And it is bad for anyone to be immured." "I don't think it has been bad for her. Perhaps this is more the world than you think." "I only mean bad in the sense of sad." "Isn't the world sad?" "What a strange young man you are. Do you really mean to say that you like to see your mother--your beautiful, lovely mother--imprisoned in this gloomy place and meeting nobody from one year's end to the other?" "I have said nothing at all about my likes," said Augustine, smiling. Lady Elliston gazed at him. He startled her almost as much as his mother had done. What a strange young man, indeed; what strange echoes of his father and mother in him. But she had to grope for the resemblances to Paul Quentin; they were there; she felt them; but they were difficult to see; while it was easy to see the resemblances to Amabel. His father was like a force, a fierceness in him, controlled and guided by an influence that was his mother. And where had he found, at nineteen, that assurance, an assurance without his father's vanity or his mother's selflessness? Paul Quentin had been assured because he was so absolutely sure of his own value; Amabel was assured because, in her own eyes, she was valueless; this young man seemed to be without self-reference or self-effacement; but he was quite self-assured. Had he some mental talisman by which he accurately gauged all values, his own included? He seemed at once so oddly above yet of the world. She pulled herself together to remember that he was, only, nineteen, and that she had had motives in coming, and that if these motives had been good they were now better. "You have said nothing; but I am going to ask you to say something"; she smiled back at him. "I am going to ask you to say that you will take me on trust. I am your friend and your mother's friend." "Since when, my mother's?" Augustine asked. His amiability of aspect remained constant. "Since twenty years."