“It never lasts,” she said. “I’ve often thought as folks would be better without it.” She chatted on, keeping a corner of her eye upon him. “Young Tetteridge was in love up to his ears when he first came to us. That marriage isn’t going to turn out trumps. So was Ted Mowbray--the old man, I mean---- Worshipped the very ground she trod on. Everybody talked about it. Didn’t prevent his gallivanting off wherever his fancy took him before they’d been married three years. Guess she wished he’d been less hot at first. Might have kept warm a little longer.” She laughed. “Some one you like and feel you can get on with, and that you know is fond of you; that’s the thing that wears and makes for the most happiness. And if she’s got a bit of money or can help you in other ways--well, there ain’t no harm in that.” She stopped to thread a needle. “Ain’t ever had a fancy, have you?” she asked. “No,” he answered. “That’s what’s troubling me. I suppose I’m too young.” His mother shook her head. “You’re too level-headed, lad,” she said. “You’ll never make a fool of yourself; for that’s what it means, generally speaking. You’ll marry with your eyes open; and she’ll be a lucky woman, because you ain’t the sort to blow hot and cold and repent of a thing after you’ve done it. That’s what breaks a woman’s heart.” She gathered together her work and rose. “Don’t get sitting up too late,” she said. “Don’t do to burn the candle at both ends.” She was bending down over him. She paused a moment with his head between her hands. “I suppose you know how handsome you are,” she said. She kissed him and went out. CHAPTER VIII They were walking on the moor. It was a Wednesday afternoon. Betty was on the way to one of her numerous pensioners, a bed-ridden old labourer who lived in what had once been a gamekeeper’s cottage on the edge of a wood, with a granddaughter to keep house for him, a handsome, wild-looking girl of about sixteen. “What are you going to do when you leave school?” Betty asked suddenly. Since the discovery that she was two years older than Anthony she had adopted towards him a motherly attitude. She had laid it aside while she was learning to ride the bicycle. Anthony’s early mechanical training had given him a general knowledge of adjustments and repairs. He had assumed the position of instructor, and had spoken in tones of authority. Feeling her safety dependent upon his strength and agility, compelled so often to call to him for help, to cling to him for support, she had been docile and apologetic. But the interlude ended, she had resumed her airs of superiority. “Oughtn’t you to be thinking about it?” she added. “I have been thinking about it,” he explained. “My difficulty is that I’ve no one to advise me, not now Sir William Coomber’s dead.” “Why don’t you have a talk with father?” she suggested. “I did think of that too,” he said with a laugh. “But it seems so cheeky.”