She waited for him to make some kind of comment, but he said nothing, and she went on, a tinge of deep, yearning sadness in her voice, "Don't let your friends, or rather their incompatibility of temper--" she hesitated, and then rather solemnly ended her sentence with the words, "affect _our_ relations, my son." "I'm sorry, mother." Tropenell's voice altered, softened. "Forgive me for the way I spoke just now! I had got it into my head--I didn't know quite exactly why--that you had promoted the marriage. I see now that you really had nothing to do with it." "I won't say that! It's difficult to remember exactly what did happen. Godfrey never wearied in his slow, inexorable pursuit of Laura. I think that at last she was touched by his constancy. She knew nothing then of human nature--she knows nothing of it now." He muttered, "Poor girl! Poor unfortunate girl!" and his way of uttering the commonplace words hurt his mother shrewdly. Suddenly she made up her mind to say at least one true thing to him. It was a thing she knew well no one but herself would ever say to Oliver. "I am in a position to know," she said, "and I want you to believe it when I tell you, that if Laura is to be as much pitied as you believe her to be--so too, I tell you, Oliver, is Godfrey! If I had known before the marriage, even an hour before the actual wedding, what I learnt afterwards--I mean as to their amazingly different ideals of life--I would have done _anything_ to stop it!" "What d'you mean exactly, mother, by different ideals of life?" As he asked the question he moved away from her a little, but he turned round and bent his eyes on to her face--dimly, whitely, apparent in the starlit, moonlit night. She did not speak at once. It seemed to her that the question answered itself, and yet she felt that he was quivering with impatience for her answer. "The French," she said in a low voice, "have a very good phrase to describe the kind of man Godfrey is. Godfrey Pavely is a _le moyen homme sensuel_--the typical man of his kind and class, Oliver--the self-satisfied, stolid, unimaginative upper middle-class. Such men feel that the world, their English world at any rate, has been made for them, built up by the all-powerful entity they call God in their personal interest. They know scarcely anything of what is going on, either above or below them, and what is more, they do not really care, as long as they and their like prosper." Oliver nodded impatiently. He knew all that well enough! His mother went on: "Godfrey Pavely ought to have married some rather clever, rather vulgar-natured, rather pretty girl, belonging to his own little world of Pewsbury. Then, instead of being what he now is, an uncomfortable, not over contented man, he would have been, well--what his worthy father was before him. That odd interest in queer, speculative money dealings, is the unfortunate fellow's only outlet, Oliver, for what romance is in him." "I wonder if you're right, mother?"