Mother and son looked at each other and said nothing. Heredity is a strange thing, and one alternately aggrandised and slighted. Blood is a very powerful force, but the little lessons taught in childhood's years bear a wondrous crop of good or evil fruit in later days. Left alone, Arthur Agar's natural tendency was towards good. Probably because he was timid, and goodness seems the safer course. There are many who have not the courage to forsake goodness, even for a moment. But under the influence of a stronger will--that is to say, under the influence of four out of every five persons crossing his path--Arthur was liable to be led in any direction. He would rather have sinned in company than have cultivated virtue in the solitude usually accorded to that state. Somehow, in his mother's presence it did not seem so very wrong to keep back the truth respecting Jem and to turn it to his own ends. It did not seem either mean or cowardly to take advantage of a rival's absence and gain his object, by deception. So, perhaps, it was in the beginning, when the world was young. In those days also a mother and son helped each other in deception, and so since then have many thousands of mothers (incompetent or vicious) led their children to ruin. “Of course,” said Mrs. Agar, “if Jem goes and does things of that description he must take the consequences.” Arthur said nothing in reply to this. The thought had been his for some months, but he had never put it into shape. “We are perfectly justified,” she went on, “in acting as if Jem were dead until he deigns to advise us to the contrary.” This also was putting a long-cherished thought into form. Arthur knew that he ought to have told his mother then and there that Jem had taken every step in his power to advise him as soon as possible of the falseness of the news transmitted to the newspapers. But something held him silent, some taint of hereditary untruthfulness. “I do not see,” she said, “that this news can, therefore, make much difference. There is no reason to alter any of our plans. To begin with, I am certain that he is dead. We must have heard by this time if he had been living.” Arthur gave a little nod of acquiescence. “And also,” pursued Mrs. Agar, with characteristic inconsistency, “he evidently does not care about us or our feelings.” Arthur knew what she meant, and he descended as low in the moral scale as ever he went during his life. “But,” he said, “there is, all the same, no time to lose.” He passed his hand over his sleek, lifeless hair with a weary look. “Well, dear,” said his mother soothingly, “I will see Ellen Glynde to-morrow, and try to make her say something to Dora. A girl's mother has always more influence than her father.” This idiotic axiom seemed to satisfy Arthur, probably because he knew no better, and he rose to take his bedroom candlestick.