It was still more extraordinary because he had so often thought he was in love, and gloried in being so; when we are very young, half the pleasure of being miserable about a girl consists of exciting comment, and pretending to be offended by it. Yet no idea of falling in love with Mrs. Adaile had crossed his mind. Perhaps it was because she was married. Perhaps it was because he was for the first time really in love. Through most of the stages the boy went without an inkling of his complaint. One day his father said to him, "You've caught it very badly, Con," and laughed a warning. The boy was startled. He went away bewildered, and asked himself if it was true. When Mrs. Adaile sat with him on the terrace that night he was self-conscious and husky. For once her presence was scarcely welcome. It rather frightened him, though he would have died sooner than admit the shameful word to himself. Afterwards he did not know how it came to pass, but she used to confide to him that her husband wasn't very kind to her. He was in London, and she sighed when she referred to going home. Her sighs were very plaintive, and her self-pity was sincere, but it was nothing to the pity that overwhelmed the boy. "People don't guess how unhappy I am," she said to him one evening. "I wish I were a woman," he muttered; "I can never tell you how sorry I am for you, and if I were a woman I could put my arms round you, and you'd know." It was a beautiful thing to say, but he said it badly, because he felt it too much to make it effective. No woman should deride a boy's love. It is ludicrous, but it is ludicrous only because it is so genuine. He has not learnt yet to trick the truth out. He does not know yet that before one could make converts to the very truths of God they had to be presented with art. "Have you any idea when you'll go?" she inquired. He was to travel with a friend, who was visiting in England. "I may get a letter any day," he answered. "Are you in a hurry?" "No." "I thought you were?" He was dumb. "I've been quite loyal to you--I haven't said a word of what I think to your people when they've talked of you." "I knew you wouldn't. It only needs a word to make them back out." "I wouldn't let you go if _I_ were your mother. Supposing I did spoil it all for you? How you'd hate me!" "No, I shouldn't," he said. "Why? Have you changed your mind, then--don't you want to go after all?" "I shouldn't hate you, because I couldn't hate you whatever you did," he explained, haltingly. "Yes, of course I want to go, but--but I don't want to go yet." They sat down, and there was a pause. In the pause, his consciousness of her presence grew queerly acute, almost painful. "What's the scent you've got on?" he asked, unsteadily. "Chypre," she said; "do you like it?"