With Kitchener (not of Khartoum, then!) curled at the foot of my bed in a brand new collar, I went to sleep, woke early, and took the first train to Stratford to say good-bye to my mother and receive her congratulations on my legacy. Everything was unchanged in the neat little house: only old Jeanne in her bed in a wonderful nightcap marked the visit as different from any other. Years had ceased to leave any mark on my mother since her hair had turned grey, and I might have been a collegian again as I kissed her. What extraordinary creatures women are! She knew inside of ten minutes, I am sure, as well as Sarah Bradley had known, how matters stood with me, and whenever I spoke of Margarita an inscrutable look was in her eye and she stroked my arm in a delicate, mute sympathy. Nor did she refer to my children any more or her hopes that I would _ranger_ myself and settle down. If she sighed a little at the news of my projected _wander jahr_, she did not beg me to set any term for it, and cheerfully congratulated herself upon my known faithfulness in the matter of correspondence. The tact of the woman! She herself cooked our simple dinner to Jeanne's voluble accompaniment of regret: the chicken from her own brood, the salad from her garden, the delicious pastry that her own hands had put into the oven. After dinner, during which we drank Jeanne's health and took her a glass of the wine I always brought with me for the stocking of her unpretentious cellar (the neighbours had never been able to regard this addition to my mother's table without suspicion and regret) my father's favourite brand of cigars was produced and I dutifully smoked one. I had not inherited his taste in this instance, but for years I had respectfully made this filial sacrifice and my mother would have been seriously hurt had I foregone it. We talked of anything but what was in our minds: the wonderful late planting of peas; the beauties of Kitchener, who was formally introduced to Jeanne and listened with perfect good breeding to a long account (in French) of the departed family poodle; the kindness of the old parish priest to Jeanne; the war-scare in the East (my mother religiously took in the London Times and watched Russia with unceasing vigilance) the shocking price of meat. Later she brought out my old violin and I played all her favourites while she accompanied me on the little cottage piano my father had bought for her when they began life together. If a tear dropped now and then on the yellow keys, neither of us took it too seriously, and it was a pleasant, soothing evening on the whole. My nerves relaxed unconsciously, and Jeanne's wild applause as one after another of her particular tunes rang out (_Parlons-nous de lui, Grandmere, Sous les Tilleuls_ and _Je sais bien, mon amour_) gave me an absurd thrill of musicianly vanity.