Elaine bit her lip. Presently she said: “Is it because you dislike Sturges?” “No,” he said promptly. “I like him!” The implication of this speech might have been had in the involuntarily warm glance which accompanied it, but which Elaine chose not to see. “I mention that simply because everybody seems to dislike him,” she said proudly. “He dislikes me very much,” said Taswell; “but that is quite natural. I am the Enemy, because I will not knuckle under.” “I don’t knuckle under to him,” said Elaine quickly. “Ah, you’re his mother; and he’s obliged to recognize you as a fixture. You must be circumvented; but I can be got rid of, if he is determined enough.” “And are you content to be got rid of?” “I know it’s my fault,” said Taswell. “I haven’t got the right sort of patience.” “I don’t set too much store by patience,” said Elaine quickly. “If he’s naughty you ought to smack him. I would back you up. I smack him when he is naughty.” “He is never naughty with you,” said Taswell with smiling lips and speaking eyes. His words carried two meanings. Elaine’s answer had but one. “No! Because he knows what he would get! If you were to . . .” “There is a difference,” Taswell pointed out, smiling. “Parental smacking is orthodox.” Elaine got up impatiently. The young man’s eyes gleamed at the sight of that splendid straightening. She crossed the room, and came back. “You make him out a perfect little monster between you!” she said bitterly. “Not I!” said Taswell, quickly. “But it’s a great mistake to suppose that children are not alive to things. There is a whole world of intuitive knowledge behind those bright, watchful black eyes of his.” Elaine stopped short, looking at Taswell with a kind of horror. Several seconds passed before she spoke. “He’s just an ordinary naughty little boy!” she said breathlessly. “There’s nothing special about him! Just an ordinary little boy!” The words seemed to be torn from her. Taswell’s eyes expressed a wonder at the sharpness of her tones. “Of course!” he said. “Just a vigorous, strong-willed little boy. The real problem lies in your situation.” “What do you mean?” she demanded. “You’re so rich!” he said. “What difference does that make to him?” she asked haughtily. “If he has always lived in a big house, where the wheels are greased, and the proper things appear at the proper times—if he has never known anything different, how could his character be affected by it?” “It isn’t the big house, and the comforts. It’s being surrounded by servants; people subservient to him.” “That’s why I wanted somebody like you.” “Exactly,” he said good-humoredly. “But . . .” He spread out his hands. “If you had a small son of your own,” she demanded, not without scorn, “would you not know how to deal with him?” “Oh, yes!” said Taswell quickly, with a secret look of resolution and amusement.