When they joined Lady Pomfret, the Squire sank cosily into an immense armchair and soon dozed off. Lionel watched his mother playing “Patience.” She sat upright at a small satin-wood card-table, her delicate hand poised above the cards, her head very erect. All her movements were graceful and deliberate. One could not imagine her running to catch a train. As a small boy, Lionel believed that she went to bed fully dressed, although really, he had proof positive to the contrary. When he sat beside her, she smiled and caressed his hand. She was playing “Miss Milligan,” an old favourite. Lionel lifted her hand and kissed it, as he said chaffingly: “Toujours Mademoiselle Milligan!” Lady Pomfret answered with perfect gravity: “Millie is so jealous, when I forsake her.” “But I am jealous that you don’t.” She swept the cards into a heap. “There! What a mother I am!” They began to talk, lowering their voices. But she still sat erect. It was Lionel who relaxed. And gazing at her, the son observed an air of vigilance, something new and arresting. Was she watching him, on the alert for changes which she must discover? He whispered to her: “Father is asleep, but you look so wide-awake.” “Perhaps I am straining my eyes to see you.” “Do I still seem small to you?” “No, no,” she smiled at him; “a colossus, my dear; you bestride my tiny world.” “Now you’re humbugging me, you wicked, satirical woman. I feel very small. Call me your Mighty Atom, if you like. I say, I wish I wasn’t quite such a mug where your elusive sex is concerned.” “Oh! Who is eluding you, Lionel?” He answered without embarrassment: “Joyce Hamlin. We used to be such good pals. And I like to pick up palship where I leave it. She half promised to join us by the river to-day. Is it true that women always do what they like, what pleases ’em best?” She was too kind and too clever to laugh at him. Her tone, as she replied, became as serious and sincere as his. “Some women, Lionel, and nearly all men, do what pleases them, or what they think, at the time, pleases them. Joyce, I can assure you, is not one of those. But whether you can pick up palship, as you call it, with her just where you left off is another matter entirely and quite outside my knowledge.” She paused a moment, and once more her soft fingers stroked his hand. Then she continued quietly: “Palship, between Joyce and you, may seem simple and desirable to you. To her, probably, it presents difficulties and perplexities.” “You are fond of Joyce, mother?” “I am very fond of her. I should be most unhappy, if unhappiness came to her.” Then she began to talk about India. Lionel told himself that his mother was, perhaps, more elusive than Joyce. * * * * *