“Because I don’t myself,” he answered. “It is as if another Anthony had been growing up inside me, unknown to me, until he had become stronger than myself and had taken possession of me. He was there when I was quite little. I used to catch a glimpse of him now and then. An odd little dreamy sort of a chap that used to wonder and ask questions. Don’t you remember? I thought he was dead: that I had killed him so that he wouldn’t worry me any more. Instead of which he was just biding his time. And now he is I, and I don’t seem to know what’s become of myself.” He laughed. “I do love Betty,” he went on, “and always shall. But it isn’t with the love that makes a man and woman one: that opens the gates of life.” “It’s come to you hot and strong, lad,” she said; “as I always expected it would, if it ever did come. But it isn’t the fiercest flame that burns the longest.” He flung himself on his knees in front of her, and putting his arms around her hid his face in her lap. She winced and her little meagre figure stiffened. But he did not notice. If she could but have forgotten: if only for that moment! “Oh, mother,” he whispered, “it’s so beautiful; it does last. It must be always there. It is only that our mean thoughts rise up like mists and hide it from our eyes.” He looked up. There were tears in his eyes. He drew her face down to his and kissed it. “I never knew how much I loved you till now,” he said. “Your dear tired hands that have worked and suffered for me. But for you I should never have met and talked with her. It is you have given her to me. And, oh, mother, she is wonderful. There must be some mystery about it. Of course, to others, she is only beautiful and sweet; but to me there is something more than that. I feel frightened sometimes as though I were looking upon something not of this world. “What did Betty say,” he asked suddenly; “was she surprised?” “She said she was glad,” his mother answered him, “that you had it in you. She said she liked you all the better for it.” He laughed. “Dear Betty,” he said, “I knew she’d understand.” His self-confidence, for the first time in his life, deserted him, when he thought of his necessary interview with Sir Harry Coomber. He himself was anxious to get it over in order to put an end to his suspense. It was Eleanor who held him back. “You don’t know dad,” she said. “He’s quite capable of carrying me off to China or Peru if he thought there was no other way of stopping it. Remember, I’m only seventeen. Besides,” she added, “he may not live very long and I don’t want to hurt him. Leave it until I’ve had a talk with Jim. I’ll write him to come down. I haven’t seen him in his uniform yet. He’ll be wanting to show himself.” She laughed.