He glanced round the room. The flock paper, the red curtains, the grimy windows, the smoky fire, had the strange novelty which the most familiar things will sometimes put on. The atmosphere was loaded with acrid fog, and the blackness of the great city. He raised his foot and warmed a muddy boot, while his thoughts went back to the stateliness and airy purity of the old manor house, where the great logs cracked and glowed upon the hearths. Mrs. Harding came and rested her elbow on the chimney-piece, looking down at her son. "I left Mitchelhurst this morning," said he, after a pause. "Yes? Well, I suppose you had seen enough of it." "It was time to come home, anyhow," he said. "You had business in town?" The tone and words would have served as well for any chance visitor. "Yes--naturally." He put the other foot to the fire by way of a change. "I did not know," said Mrs. Harding. "I have nothing to do with your business. It certainly isn't mine. You are always welcome to be here as much as you please, but of course you will attend to your own affairs." Reynold made no answer. "You are your own master," she continued, after a short silence. "I have recognised that for some years. I have not expected you to go my way." "One must go one's own way, I suppose," said the young man. "And if I expected you to show some slight consideration for me, in taking the way you have chosen--I was mistaken!" He stirred the fire, and replaced the poker, but did not look at her or speak. "You know what I mean?" she demanded. "Perfectly." "Reynold, you might have written! Your uncle's offer deserved a word. I do not say you might have accepted it, but you might have refused it courteously. Was that so much to ask? You have insulted him wantonly, and he will never pardon it. After all, he is your father's brother, and an old man. Reynold, you should have written!" He did not raise his eyes from the burning coals. "Well," he said, "I did propose to write before I went away." She winced at the thrust. "I was wrong!" she owned, with bitter passion in her voice. "It would have been better." "As things have turned out," said Reynold, "I think it would." Poor little Barbara! If that angry, dark-eyed woman had known how near the fulfilment of her hopes had been, and lost by how pitiful a chance? But the secret was safe. Kate Harding drew a long breath. "Well, I have no more to say about it. Perhaps it is best that we should understand each other. You knew how your silence would wound me; it was deliberate--it was calculated. Well, it _has_ wounded me, I don't deny it. But it is all over now, and you will never wound me again. Do what you please, now and always--as you have done." He signified his attention sullenly, with a slight movement of his head.