It became at last a matter of rejoicing to Mrs. Trafford that the ties of the old instinctive tenderness between herself and her son, the memories of pain and tears and the passionate conflict of childhood, were growing so thin and lax and inconsiderable, that she could even hope some day to talk to him again--almost as she talked to the young men and young women who drifted out of the unknown to her and sat in her little room and sought to express their perplexities and listened to her advice.... It seemed to her that afternoon the wished-for day had come. Trafford found her just returned from a walk in Kensington Gardens and writing a note at her desk under the narrow sunlit window that looked upon the High Street. "Finish your letter, little mother," he said, and took possession of the hearthrug. When she had sealed and addressed her letter, she turned her head and found him looking at his father's portrait. "Done?" he asked, becoming aware of her eyes. She took her letter into the hall and returned to him, closing the door behind her. "I'm going away, little mother," he said with an unconvincing off-handedness. "I'm going to take a holiday." "Alone?" "Yes. I want a change. I'm going off somewhere--untrodden ground as near as one can get it nowadays--Labrador." Their eyes met for a moment. "Is it for long?" "The best part of a year." "I thought you were going on with your research work again." "No." He paused. "I'm going to Labrador." "Why?" she asked. "I'm going to think." She found nothing to say for a moment. "It's good," she remarked, "to think." Then, lest she herself should seem to be thinking too enormously, she rang the bell to order the tea that was already on its way. "It surprises a mother," she said, when the maid had come and gone, "when her son surprises her." "You see," he repeated, as though it explained everything, "I want to think." Then after a pause she asked some questions about Labrador; wasn't it very cold, very desert, very dangerous and bitter, and he answered informingly. How was he going to stay there? He would go up the country with an expedition, build a hut and remain behind. Alone? Yes--thinking. Her eyes rested on his face for a time. "It will be--lonely," she said after a pause. She saw him as a little still speck against immense backgrounds of snowy wilderness. The tea-things came before mother and son were back at essentials again. Then she asked abruptly: "Why are you going away like this?" "I'm tired of all this business and finance," he said after a pause. "I thought you would be," she answered as deliberately. "Yes. I've had enough of things. I want to get clear. And begin again somehow." She felt they both hung away from the essential aspect. Either he or she must approach it. She decided that she would, that it was a less difficult thing for her than for him. "And Marjorie?" she asked.