“Something is surely wrong when one begins to count up one’s blessings,” said Muriel. “My life is full—full of everything I want!” But as she looked defiantly in the glass she saw she had not got the woman’s look in her eyes. Launcelot and Leslie walked hand in hand very solemnly home through the streets of London. Leslie had been trying to explain. Launcelot’s little face was very white, but he would not cry. “Do you think—do you think I ought to leave you and Lady Beautiful and—and baby?” he asked wistfully. “She is your mother, dear boy, and she wants you very much,” said Leslie reproaching himself for the coldness in his voice. “And are mothers everything?” “Mothers are a very great deal, old fellow. You see you belong to them—you’re their very own.” “Yes, I suppose so,” said the little fellow wearily. “Baby is Lady Beautiful’s very own, and so are you, but I’m not to be any more.” There was a quiver in his voice. Leslie pressed his little hand, he felt too much to speak. “My mother didn’t want me very much for her very own before, did she? You see she gave me to Lady Beautiful.” “She wants you now,” said Damores hoarsely. They were very near home. “I—I don’t think I want her very much, you know,” said Launcelot wistfully. “But they didn’t give me any choice, did they, when they made me belong to her?” “I think they thought she needed you; you see she has no one else but a new husband,” Leslie explained. “Then I must go,” said Launcelot as Leslie opened the door, “because you see a new husband can’t be much, and a boy who belongs to you must mean more, I should think.” “I am quite sure that a boy who belongs to you means much more,” said Leslie kissing him. So it was all settled before Launcelot ever saw Lady Beautiful. They looked a little nervously at each other as the door opened and they saw her sitting by the fire. She sprang up with a little sudden cry and her arms held out to him. He had been to school and knew that fellows never cry, but he had only just learnt it—and he forgot. Leslie watched them for a moment sobbing in each other’s arms. The tenderness and pity from her new rich store made her seem more wonderful than ever to him. His heart ached at their grief, but the woman’s assertions were true—the child must go. The inevitable had to him a consolation. He went and smoked hard in the studio. To Cynthia it was a cage, and she struggled in vain against the bars, crying over Launcelot as he slept at last, with troubled breathing from his late sobs. But when the baby cried she went to it again. The next morning Mrs. Hicks appeared. She was nervously anxious to please. She called Launcelot by all the affectionate names she could think of, but he only looked at her with half-frightened, wondering eyes.