She positively glowed with the force of her conviction, and Mrs. Peyton, for a strange instant, felt her own resistance wavering. She herself had never considered the question in that light--the light of Darrow’s viewing his gift as a justifiable compensation. But the glimpse she caught of it drove her shuddering behind her retrenchments. “That argument,” she said coldly, “would naturally be more convincing to Darrow than to my son.” Miss Verney glanced up, struck by the change in Mrs. Peyton’s voice. “Ah, then you agree with him? You think it _would_ be dishonest?” Mrs. Peyton saw that she had slipped into self-betrayal. “My son and I have not spoken of the matter,” she said evasively. She caught the flash of relief in Miss Verney’s face. “You haven’t spoken? Then how do you know how he feels about it?” “I only judge from--well, perhaps from his not speaking.” The girl drew a deep breath. “I see,” she murmured. “That is the very reason that prevents his speaking.” “The reason?” “Your knowing what he thinks--and his knowing that you know.” Mrs. Peyton was startled at her subtlety. “I assure you,” she said, rising, “that I have done nothing to influence him.” The girl gazed at her musingly. “No,” she said with a faint smile, “nothing except to read his thoughts.” VI Mrs. Peyton reached home in the state of exhaustion which follows on a physical struggle. It seemed to her as though her talk with Clemence Verney had been an actual combat, a measuring of wrist and eye. For a moment she was frightened at what she had done--she felt as though she had betrayed her son to the enemy. But before long she regained her moral balance, and saw that she had merely shifted the conflict to the ground on which it could best be fought out--since the prize fought for was the natural battlefield. The reaction brought with it a sense of helplessness, a realization that she had let the issue pass out of her hold; but since, in the last analysis, it had never lain there, since it was above all needful that the determining touch should be given by any hand but hers, she presently found courage to subside into inaction. She had done all she could--even more, perhaps, than prudence warranted--and now she could but await passively the working of the forces she had set in motion.