“And why did you not come to see me before?” Here was an embarrassing question. “Because I have been in India,” was the evasive reply. “And are you come to stay at home now?” Momentary pause. Without waiting for a reply he pursued: “I’ve seen your picture often. Alice keeps it in a locket; that one,” pointing a firm brown finger at his unfortunate mother, and raising a scorching blush to her hitherto pale face. “She says I am to love you very much--as much as her.” “Do you love her?” continued this pitiless innocent; “do you love Alice?” Reginald, painfully embarrassed, cast about for a reply. In desperation he answered: “Of whom are you speaking, Maurice? It is not possible that you call your mother Alice!” “Yes, sometimes; and so do Aunt Mary and Miss Ferrars.” “Well, you are not to do it any more, remember. Now tell me your name?” said his father, catechising in his turn. “Maurice Reg--nald Fairfax.” So he had not been wholly forgotten. “And how old are you?” “Past two, long time. How old are you?” “Past twenty this long time. Are you a good boy, do you think?” “Alice knows,” he replied, nodding with easy confidence towards his mother. “Yes, Alice knows,” said she, rising quickly and stretching out her hand; “Alice knows that it’s your bedtime, so say ‘Good-night’ and come along.” “No! no! no! not yet!” he cried, clinging tightly to Sir Reginald and burrowing under his arm. “Maurice, listen to me,” said his father gravely, setting him down. “You told me just now that you intended to be a soldier, did you not?” “Yes,” returned Maurice eagerly. “Well, you will never do for a soldier if you go on like this; his first duty is obedience. Now give me a kiss, and go with your mother at once.” Maurice, whose _forte_ was certainly not obedience, raised his eyes and looked at his father. Seeing that he was perfectly in earnest, he climbed once more on his knee, imprinted an experimental kiss on his moustache, and reluctantly departed with many regretful backward glances, Reginald watching the retreating pair till they were out of sight. Were they really his wife and son? He could scarcely realise it; for, after all, he had had a very few months of married life and twenty-seven years of bachelor liberty. He felt much more like a bachelor than a Benedict. Miss Saville, following his eyes, said: “You may well look proud of him. Is he not a splendid boy? But he wants a father’s hand over him sadly. Alice is his slave, and has been so ever since he was born. She gives up to him in every way, and he treats her more as his playfellow--as you may see--than his mother.” Alice, having deposited Maurice in the nursery, ran quickly down to her own room, to be alone for a little time to think and to compose herself.