“We are in plenty of time for the train,” Mrs Mitford said; “not so quick, if you please, my dear. Oh, John, it is so strange to hear you say that life is poor! Have you nothing to tell me, my own boy? I have never asked a question, though you may think my heart has been sore enough sometimes. What is the matter? won’t you tell me now?” “There is nothing to tell--nothing is the matter,” said John. “But you are not happy, my dear boy. Do you think your mother could help seeing that? Oh, John, what is it? Is it her father? Do you feel the change? It must be something about Kate?” “It is nothing at all, mother,” said John, with hasty impatience; and then it suddenly occurred to him that he was going away into utter solitude, and that here was the only being in the world to whom he could even partially open his heart. She felt the change of his voice, though she had no clue to the fitfulness of his thoughts. “It is quite true,” he continued, “there is nothing to tell; and yet all is not well, mother. I can’t tell you how or why. I am jangled somehow out of tune--that is all; there is nobody to blame.” “I could see that, my dear,” she said, looking wistfully at him; “but is that all you have to say to your mother, John?” “There is nothing more to say,” he repeated. “I cannot tell you, I can’t tell myself what is the matter. There is nothing the matter. It is a false position somehow, I suppose--that is all.” “In the bank, John?” “In the bank, and in the house, and in the world, mother,” he cried, with sudden vehemence. “I don’t seem able to take root anywhere; everything looks false and forced and miserable. I can neither go on nor go back, and I stagnate standing still. Never mind; I suppose it is just an experience like any other, and will have to be borne.” Then there passed through Mrs Mitford’s mind as quick as lightning that passage about those who put their hand to the plough and draw back. But she restrained herself. “I suppose it is just the great change, my dear,” she said, faltering, yet soothing him, “and all that you have given up--for you have given up a great deal, John. I suppose your time is not your own now, and you can’t do what you like? And sitting at a desk--you who used to be free to read, or to walk, or to go on the river, or to help your papa, or see your friends--it must make a great difference, John.” “Yes, I suppose that is what it is,” he said, feeling that he had successfully eluded the subject, and yet celebrating his success with a sigh. “But I hope it is made up to you in another way,” Mrs Mitford said, suddenly, looking up into his face. He thought he had got off, but she did not mean to let him off. She was a simple little woman, but yet not so simple but what she could employ a legitimate artifice, like the rest of her kind. “You had a letter from Kate this morning, dear. I saw her little handwriting. I suppose she makes up for everything, John?”