They talked for some time. At first Mrs. Ross consoled him, insisting that imagination affected by what had happened later was playing him false. Then she seemed to be trying to state an opinion which she found it difficult to state. She spoke to Michael of qualities which in the future with one quality added would show his way in the world clear and straight before him. He was puzzled to guess at what career she was hinting. “My dear Michael, I would not tell you for anything,” she affirmed. “Why not?” “Why not? Why, because with all the ingenuous proclamations of your willingness to do anything that you’re positive you can do better than anything else, I’m quite, quite sure you’re still the rather perverse Michael of old, and as I sit here talking to you I remember the time when I told you as a little boy that you would have been a Roundhead in the time of the Great Rebellion. How angry you were with me! So what I think you’re going to do—I almost said when you’re grown up—but I mean when you leave Oxford, I shall have to tell you after you have made up your own mind. I shall have to give myself merely the pleasure of saying, ‘I knew it.’” “I suppose really I know what you think I shall do,” said Michael slowly. “But you’re wrong—at least, I think you’re wrong. I lack the mainspring of the parson’s life. Talk to me about Kenneth instead of myself. How’s he getting on?” “Oh, he’s splendid at five years old, but I want to give him something more than I ever managed to give you.” “Naturally,” said Michael, smiling. “He’s your son.” “Michael, would you be surprised if I told you that I thought of....” Mrs. Ross broke off abruptly. “No, I won’t tell you yet.” “You’re full of unrevealed mysteries,” said Michael. “Yes, it’s bedtime for me. Good night.” Two mornings later Michael had a letter from his mother in London. He wondered why he should be vaguely surprised by her hurried return. Surely Prescott’s death could not have been a reason to bring her home. 173 CHEYNE WALK, S.W. _My dearest Michael,_ _I’m so dreadfully upset about poor Dick Prescott. I have so few old friends, so very few, that I can’t afford to lose him. His devotion to your father was perfectly wonderful. He gave up everything to us. He remained in society just enough to be of use to your father, but he was nearly always with us. I think he was fond of me, but he worshiped him. Perhaps I was wrong in trying to encourage the idea of marrying Stella. But I console myself by saying that that had nothing to do with this idea of his to take his own life. You see, when your father died, he found himself alone. I’ve been so selfishly interested in reëntering life. He had no wish to do so. Michael, I can’t write anything more about it. Perhaps, dearest boy, you wouldn’t mind giving up some of your time with the Carthews, and will come back earlier to be with me in London for a little time._ _Your loving_ _Mother._ _P.S.—I hope the funeral was properly done._