He was still making his attempt at pleasantness, but something hard and strained had come into his voice, and as, with a sort of helplessness, her resources exhausted, his mother sat silent, he went on, glancing at her, as if with the sudden resolution, he also wanted to make very sure of his way;-- "You like seeing him more than anything, don't you; though you are separated." Augustine Channice talked a great deal to his mother about outside things, such as philosophy; but of personal things, of their relation to the world, to each other, to his father, he never spoke. So that his speaking now was arresting. His mother gazed at him. "Separated? We have always been the best of friends." "Of course. I mean--that you've never cared to live together.--Incompatibility, I suppose. Only," Augustine did not smile, he looked steadily at his mother, "I should think that since you are so fond of him you'd like seeing him oftener. I should think that since he is the best of friends he would want to come oftener, you know." When he had said these words he flushed violently. It was an echo of his mother's flush. And she sat silent, finding no words. "Mother," said Augustine, "forgive me. That was impertinent of me. It's no affair of mine." She thought so, too, apparently, for she found no words in which to tell him that it was his affair. Her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her eyes downcast, she seemed shrunken together, overcome by his tactless intrusion. "Forgive me," Augustine repeated. The supplication brought her the resource of words again. "Of course, dear. It is only--I can't explain it to you. It is very complicated. But, though it seems so strange to you,--to everybody, I know--it is just that: though we don't live together, and though I see so little of your father, I do care for him very, very much. More than for anybody in the world,--except you, of course, dear Augustine." "Oh, don't be polite to me," he said, and smiled. "More than for anybody in the world; stick to it." She could but accept the amendment, so kindly and, apparently, so lightly pressed upon her, and she answered him with a faint, a grateful smile, saying, in a low voice:--"You see, dear, he is the noblest person I have ever known." Tears were in her eyes. Augustine turned away his own. They sat then for a little while in silence, the mother and son. Her eyes downcast, her hands folded in an attitude that suggested some inner dedication, Amabel Channice seemed to stay her thoughts on the vision of that nobility. And though her son was near her, the thoughts were far from him. It was characteristic of Augustine Channice, when he mused, to gaze straight before him, whatever the object might be that met his unseeing eyes. The object now was the high Autumnal sky outside, crossed only here and there by a drifting fleet of clouds.