Sir Geoffry stirred the fire mechanically, his thoughts elsewhere--just as he had stirred it in a memorable interview of the days gone by. Unconsciously they had taken up the same position as on that unhappy morning: he with his elbow on the mantelpiece, and his face partly turned from his mother; she in the same chair, and on the same red square of the Turkey carpet. The future had been before them then: it lay in their own hands, so to say, to choose the path for good or for ill. Sir Geoffry had pointed out which was the right one to take, and said that it would bring them happiness. But my lady had negatived it, and he could only bow to her decree. And so, the turning tide was passed, not seized upon, and they had been sailing on a sea tolerably smooth, but without depth in it or sunshine on it. What had the voyage brought forth? Not much. And it seemed, so far as one was concerned, nearly at an end now. "I fancy Rachel cannot be well, mother," observed Sir Geoffry, "She would not lie down so much if she were." "A little inertness, Geoffry, nothing more. About Christmas?" continued Lady Chavasse. "Shall you be well enough to go to the Derrestons', do you think?" "I think we had better let Christmas draw nearer before laying out any plans for it," he answered. "Yes, that's all very well: but I am going to write to Lady Derreston to-day, and she will expect me to mention it. Shall you like to go?" A moment's pause, and then he turned to her: his clear, dark-blue eyes, ever kind and gentle, looking straight into hers; his voice low and tender. "I do not suppose I shall ever go away from the Grange again." She turned quite white. Was it coming so near as that? A kind of terror took possession of her. "Geoffry! _Geoffry!_" "My darling mother, I will stay with you if I can; you know that. But the fiat does not lie with you or with me." Sir Geoffry went behind her chair, and put his arms round her playfully, kissing her with a strange tenderness of heart that he sought to hide. "It may be all well yet, mother. Don't let it trouble you before the time." She could not make any rejoinder, could not speak, and quitted the room to hide her emotion. In the after-part of the day the surgeon, Duffham, bustled in. His visit was later than usual. "And how are you, Sir Geoffry?" he asked, as they sat alone, facing each other between the table and the fire. "Much the same, Duffham." "Look here, Sir Geoffry--you should rally both yourself and your spirits. It's of no use _giving way_ to illness. There's a certain listlessness upon you; I've seen it for some time. Shake it off." "Willingly--if you will give me the power to do so," was Sir Geoffry's reply. "The listlessness you speak of proceeds from the fact that my health and energies fail me. As to my spirits, there's nothing the matter with them."