A swelling white rage choked the boy's voice. "Does--does mother know that you went to--such places?" Paul turned sharply. "Of course not. There are some things women are supposed to know nothing about." That was the end of the discussion. Pelham gradually decreased the frequency of his visits; but he still managed precious afternoons with her in his car, and occasional evenings, which left him irritatingly disturbed. He wanted to see more of her, and knew that he should see less; he was eager even to hear her name mentioned at home, but embarrassed if it was. "Listen, Nell," he interposed to his sister, when he was helping to draw up the list of guests for a summer fete the girls planned. "You used to be pretty fond of Mrs. Meade." "Not much! You can't have your Dorothy here." Pelham was exasperated with the whole lot--always excepting his mother. His long confidences with her had begun when he was a child, and still were a pleasure and a panacea. One of these talks gave aid to his bewilderment about Dorothy, although she was not mentioned. It had started inconsequentially with a discussion of little Ned's conduct, and dipped into many topics. In the course of it, he promised to sound both the brothers on their attitude toward girls, and the annoying problem of sex. "You can do much more with the boys than I, Pelham. They'll listen to an older brother, where they wouldn't listen to their mother." Lovingly he patted the smooth flush of her cheek, delighting in the shy wildrose beauty of her face. His fingers crept from this to the straight chestnut folds of her hair, longing to stroke its unbound cascades, and let them curtain his face, as she had done when he was a little boy in bed; as she still sometimes did. Then he answered her. "I listened to you, mother. It was your words and your wishes that have kept me straight." "And, please God, they will always keep my own dear son the finest, cleanest, purest man in the world."