After this he went off to the solitude of the billiard-room, and a leisurely series of experiments upon the spot-stroke. It was his only idea of a contemplative evening. He was no less sullen and gloomy in his manner to Christabel next morning at breakfast, for all his mother had said to him overnight. He answered his cousin in monosyllables, and was rude to Randie--wondered that his mother should allow dogs in her dining-room--albeit Randie's manners were far superior to his own. Later in the morning, when Christabel and her aunt were alone, the girl crept to her favourite place beside Mrs. Tregonell's chair, and with her folded arms resting on the cushioned elbow, looked up lovingly at the widow's grave, sad face. "Auntie, dearest, you know so well how fondly I love you, that I am sure you won't think me any less loving and true, if I ask you to let me leave you for a little while. Let me go away somewhere with Jessie, to some quiet German town, where I can improve myself in music, and where she and I can lead a hard-working, studious life, just like a couple of Girton girls. You remember, last year you suggested that we should travel, and I refused your offer, thinking that I should be happier at home; but now I feel the need of a change." "And you would leave me, now that my health is broken, and that I am so dependent on your love?" said Mrs. Tregonell, with mild reproachfulness. Christabel bent down to kiss the thin, white hand that lay on the cushion near her--anxious to hide the tears that sprang quickly to her eyes. "You have Leonard," she faltered. "You are happy, are you not, dearest, now Leonard is at home again?" "At home--yes, I thank God that my son is under my roof once more. But how long may he stay at home? How much do I have of his company--in and out all day--anywhere but at my side--making every possible excuse for leaving me? He has begun, already, to talk of going to South America in the autumn. Poor boy, he is restless and unhappy; and I know the reason. You must know it too, Belle. It is your fault. You have spoiled the dream of my life." "Auntie, is this generous, is this fair?" pleaded Christabel, with her head still bent over the pale wasted hand.