The address was of one of the smaller and quieter hotels in the great city, a house unknown to the tourist, English or American: a house patronised only by what are called "nice people." Trouble! What could be Mrs. Rutherford's trouble? Had she anything in this world to be glad or sorry about, except her son? The letter gave Vera a night of agitation and feverish dreams, and she spent the hour before noon pacing up and down the great room, deadly pale in the dense blackness of her long crape gown. It was not five minutes past the hour when Mrs. Rutherford was announced. She, too, was pale, and she, too, wore black, but not mourning. "You are kind to let me see you," she said, clasping Vera's hand. "How could I refuse? I am so sorry you are in trouble. Is it--" her voice became tremulous, "is it anything about Claude? Is he ill?" "No, he is not ill, unless it is in mind. But the trouble is about him, a new and unexpected trouble. A thunderbolt!" The terror in Vera's face startled her. She thought the frail figure would drop at her feet in a dead faint, and she caught her by the arm. "I think you may help me. You and he were great friends, pals, Susan Amphlett called you." "Yes, we were pals. He was so good to me at Disbrowe, years and years ago." "Yes, I know. He has often talked of that time. Well, you were great friends; and a young man will sometimes open his mind more to a woman friend than he will to his mother. Did Claude ever talk to you of his Church, of his remorse for his neglect of his religion, of his wanting to give up the world, to end a useless life in a monastery?" "Never." "I thought not. It is a sudden caprice; there is no real strength of purpose in it. He is disgusted and disappointed. He has made a failure of his life, and he is angry with, himself, and sick to death of Society. Such a man cannot go on being trivial for ever. A life without purpose can but end in disgust. My poor child, you are shivering, and can hardly stand. Let us go nearer the fire. Sit down, and let us talk quietly--and be kind, and bear with a foolish old woman, who sees the joy of her life slipping away from her." The visitor's quick eye had noticed the great armchair and book-table by the hearth, and knew that it was Vera's place. She led her there, made her sit down, and took a chair by her side. "Now we shall be warm and comfortable, and can look my trouble in the face." "Tell me all about it," Vera said quietly, with her hand in Mrs. Rutherford's. The wave of agitation had passed. She spoke slowly, but her voice was no longer tremulous. "I dare say, if you have ever thought of me in the past, you have given me credit for being a strong-minded woman." "Claude has told me of your strength of will--the right kind of strength." "And now I have to confess myself to you, as weak, unstable, inconsistent; caring for my son's love for me more than I care for his eternal welfare." "No, no, I can never believe that."