There was an awkward silence. The General and the Prince had risen to their feet as if in apology to the hostess, but she had accepted the outburst with unruffled calmness. Her kind, restful, homely face showed no annoyance. Rising quietly from the table she followed the stormy guest and found him around in front of the house, sitting upon the granite doorstep, his chin in his hands, frowning fiercely upon the quaint old flower-garden before him. He got up as she approached and stood a few feet away, regarding her with a hostile scowl. Seating herself upon the step she said, with a pleasant smile: “Of course you are tired, sonny, we all understand that, and you are unhappy to-day, but it won’t be for long.” These assuring words failed of their purpose, and he eyed her sidewise, and with suspicion. He was too old a bird to be fooled so easily. A few sprigs were torn from the box border within his reach as if the conversation bored him. “I had a boy once,” continued Mrs. Judd. “I understand boys, and know just how you feel. We shall be good friends, I’m sure.” After a pause devoted to serious reflection, he inquired: “Did your boy like you?” “Oh, yes.” He came nearer and stood in front of her. Then, slowly and with the precision with which he always delivered himself when speaking English, he said: “My mother was different from you, and her clothes were more beautiful, but if one boy liked you another might. I might. Would you like to see my mother’s portrait?” Mrs. Judd said she would like very much to see it, and he began fumbling about and seemed to be tickling himself near the buckle of his belt. But, as it proved, he was ascertaining the whereabouts of a locket, which he finally fished up by means of a gold chain about his neck. The chain was of such a length that the locket, instead of reposing near the heart of the wearer, hung a little below the centre of the stomach. When it finally emerged above his collar, he placed the warm miniature in her hand, saying: “That is my mother.”