As she talked, dry-eyed now, for she had conquered her emotion—her tears were because she was at home at last, among old and happy associations once more—I was able to see how she had aged. But she did not look as though her life with Ronnie had been a failure. There was no careworn anxious suggestion; there was merely sadness in her loss, and fatigue. She was still beautiful. I did not want to ask any questions, and the principal one was answered by her general demeanour with regard to Ronnie: they had been happy. “I regret nothing,” her eyes seemed to say. She had no plans. She did not know what she would do after leaving me. How was every one? Was Mrs. O’Gorman still living? No. She was sorry. She had been hoping to talk with her. How splendid, though, to find Suzanne! She seemed to be shy of referring to Rose again. I could not help noticing it. Every silence seemed to be filled intensely with consideration of her relations with her child and her child’s attitude to her. She must have given endless thought to this matter, but to be so near brought it all back more vividly and critically. “I suppose—” she began once and stopped, and I knew that the rest of the sentence would have been—“she knows”: meaning “she knows about me and Ronnie?” Did daughters, she must often have asked herself, forgive mothers who run away from them with other men? Perhaps it was because her mind had travelled thus far that she suddenly said again, “Dombeen, remember this. No matter how sad I may seem to be, now and then, remember this: I regret nothing. Ronnie needed me more than anyone.” Then she became gayer and smiled her old smile. “And you?” she said. “How are you? What beautiful white hair!” “I am seventy,” I said. “Nothing else is the matter. But I always maintain that white hair is beautiful only on the heads of others.” She came at last to Rose again by a more direct route. “Those pictures”—looking at the walls—“are they hers?” I said that they were. I had told her in my letters of Rose’s painting. “Oh, but they’re very good,” she said. “I’m so glad. There should always be an artist in our family.” Should I tell her of Rose’s career, due to begin to-morrow? My natural instinct, as always, was, at the moment, for fear of giving pain, to conceal it; but I remembered my lesson, learned both from Rose and Rose, and told her. She was silent for some time. “But where is she?” she then asked. “She has gone to bed,” I said, “most probably.” “Without coming to say good night to you? Isn’t that strange?” She looked at me searchingly. “She knew you were here,” I said. “She knew! How?” “She saw you with me, from the garden.” “Oh!” said Rose. “Yes.” She was silent again. “I’ll go to bed now, I think,” she said, and I led her upstairs. “To-morrow your old room will be ready for you,” I said. “It couldn’t be to-night.”