"No, no, Sir Reginald Eversleigh, _you_ shall not be my stumbling-block in this instance. How horribly afraid he is of me," thought Victor Carrington, and a smile of cruel satisfaction, which might have become a demon, lighted his pale face at the reflection; "he is dying to know exactly how that business of Dale the elder was managed; he has the haziest notions in connection with it, and, by Jove, he dare not ask me. And yet, I am only his agent,--his _to be paid_ agent,--and he shakes in his shoes before me. Yes, and I will be paid too, richly paid, Sir Reginald, not only in money, but in power. In power--the best and most enjoyable thing that money has to buy." Victor Carrington sent his letter to the post, and joined his mother in her sitting-room, where her life passed placidly away, among her birds and her flowers. Mrs. Carrington had none of the vivacity about her which is so general an attribute of French women. She liked her quiet life, and had little sympathy with her son's restless ambition and devouring discontent. A cold, silent, self-contained woman, she shut herself up in her own occupations, and cared for nothing beyond them. She had the French national taste and talent for needlework, and generally listened to her son, as he talked or read to her, with a piece of elaborate embroidery in her hand. On the present occasion, she was engaged as usual, and Victor looked at her work and praised it, according to his custom. "What is it for, mother?" he asked. "An altar-cloth," she replied. "I cannot give money, you know, Victor, and so I am glad to give my work." The young man's dark eyes flashed, as he replied;-- "True, mother, but the time will come--it is not far off now--when you and I shall both be set free from poverty, when we shall once more take our place in our own rank--when we shall be what the Champfontaines were, and do as the Champfontaines did--when this hateful English name shall be thrown aside, and this squalid English home abandoned, and the past restored to us, we to the past." He rose as he spoke, and walked about the room. A faint flush brightened his sallow face, an unwonted light glittered in his deep-set eyes. His mother continued to ply her needle, with downcast eyes, and a face which showed no sign of sympathy with her son's enthusiasm. "Industry and talent are good, my Victor," she said, "and they bring comfort, they bring _le bienêtre_ in their train; but I do not think all the industry and talent you can display as a surgeon in London will ever enable you to restore the dignity and emulate the wealth of the old Champfontaines."