"Well, mother, I'll have a look round. I'm truly glad you're quit of the German and Austrian horrors, though you must bear the blame for having organized them in the first place. I will presently put on David Williams's clothes and see what I _can_ see of them. But if you want me to be a daughter to you, you'll take the first and the readiest opportunity of removing your name from these--_ach_!--these legacies of the Nineteenth century. You'll wind up the Warren Hotels' Company, and as to the two houses you've got here and at Roquebrune, you'll turn them now into decent places where no indecency is tolerated." _Mrs. Warren_: "I'll think it over and I don't say as I won't give in to you. I'm tired of a rackety life and I'm proud of you and ... and ... (cries) ... ashamed of meself ... ashamed whenever I look at you. Though I've never bin what I call _bad_. I've helped many a lame dog over a stile.... That's partly how you came into existence--almost the only time I've ever been in love--Many years ago--why, girl, you must be--getting on for thirty-five--let me see ... (muses). Yes, it was in the winter of '73-74. I'd bin at Ostende with a young barrister from London ... him I told you about once, who used to write plays, and we came on to Brussels because he had some business with the Belgian Government. He left me pretty much to myself just then, though quite open-handed, don't you know.... One day I was walking through one of the poorer streets where the people was very Flemish, and I stood looking up at an old doorway--Dunno' why--S'pose I thought it picturesque--reminded me of Praddy's drawin's. And an old woman comes up and says in French, 'Madame est Anglaise?' In those days I couldn't hardly speak a word o' French, but I said 'Oui.' Then she wants me to come upstairs but I thought it was some trap. However as far as I could make out there was a young Irishman there, she said, lying very sick of a fever and seemingly had no friends. "Well: I took down the address and the next day I came there with the concierge of the hotel where we were staying, and under his protection we went upstairs. My! it was a beastly place--and your poor father--for he _was_ your father--was tossing about and raving, with burning cheeks and huge eyes, just like yours. Well! I had plenty of money just then, so with the help of that concierge we found a decent lodging--they wasn't so partic'lar then about infection or they didn't think typhoid infectious--I took him there in an ambulance, engaged a nurse, and in a fortnight he was recovering. He turned out to be a seminarist--I think they called it--from Ireland who was going to be trained for the priesthood at Louvain--lots of Irish used to come there in those days. And somehow a fit of naughtiness had overcome him--he was only twenty--and he thought he'd like to see a bit of the world. So he'd sloped from his college and had a bit of a spree at Brussels and Ostende. Then he was took with this fever--