"I think so. But it was so difficult to catch every word in that galop. If he did not say the _exact words_ he said as much." "Did he say anything about speaking to papa?" "No. But I said it." "_You_ said it, Bessie?"' "Well, mama! Reggie did not seem to wish to be bothered." "I see." "Not quite yet, you understand." "I see." In the pause that followed the mother's large eyes, surrounded by dark rings, and set rather deeply in the dusky paleness of her well-featured face, dwelt consideringly upon her daughter's round cheeks with their fair smooth skin, upon her grey-green eyes, and smooth fair hair. "It is not very satisfactory, I'm afraid, Bessie," she said reluctantly at length. Bessie's face fell. "I thought I'd better tell you." "Certainly, my dear." "I wonder what we ought to do, mama?" "To do, Bessie?" "I thought, perhaps, if Reggie does not speak to papa, that papa might speak to Reggie?" Mrs. Day shook a sharply dissenting head. "That would not be the same thing at all, my dear child." "What ought we to do, then? I thought you would know. Mothers have to arrange these things, haven't they?" "Well, you see, Bessie, usually the young man--" "I know. But Reggie does not wish to. If you must know, mama, he said so, in so many words." "Then, Bessie--!" "But I think that something ought to be done. You ought to do something--or papa. _Everything_ can't be left to me!" The tip of Bessie's nose grew pink, her lip quivered, tears showed in her pale blue eyes. Mrs. Day laid a soothing hand upon her arm. "We won't talk of it any more now," she said. "We are both tired. We will sleep on it, Bessie. Go to bed, dear, and leave everything till the morning." Her silver candlestick in her hand, Mrs. Day trailed her rich green satin across the landing, pausing at the door of Bernard, her second-born, coming between Bessie and Deleah. She listened a moment, then rapped upon the door. "In bed, dear?" "Yes, mother." "Lights out?" "A half hour ago." "Not smoking, Bernard?" "Of course not. Go away." To the bedside of the youngest child she betook herself next. Franky, who had been sent to bed several hours before the rest, was sound asleep. There were nine years between this child and Deleah; Franky was the baby, the darling of them all. The mother, tired as she was with the duties and responsibilities of the evening, stood long to look upon the sleeping face of the boy. His dark hair, allowed, through mother's pride in its beauty, to grow longer than was fitting for a boy, curled damply about his brow, his small, dark, delicately aquiline features were like the pretty Deleah's. The elder boy and girl, fair of skin, with straight hair of a pale, lustreless gold, resembled their father; Mrs. William Day was not so far blinded by love of her husband as not to rejoice in secret that at least two of her children "favoured" herself.