"I've told you before, mother, that I have no particular thoughts on that subject. It isn't in my line," George would say, smiling profanely, but uneasily, and wondering how long this bout of it might be going to last. "Don't be shocking, George! You _must_ have some ideas about it. Now, don't hum and haw--just tell me what you think." And she would lean forward, all urgency and expectation. A pause, during which George could think only of the ghastly figure on the sofa. She sat upright, generally, against a prop of cushions, dressed in a white French tea-gown, slim enough to begin, with, but far too large now for the shrunk form--a bright spot of rouge on either pinched cheek, and the dyed "fringe" and "coils" covering all the once shapely head. Meanwhile her hand would play impatiently on her knee. The hand was skin and bone; and the rings with which it was laden would often slip off from it to the floor--a diversion of which George was always prompt to avail himself. "Why don't you talk to Mr. Fearon, mother?" he would say gently at last. "It's his business to discuss these things." "Talk to a clergyman! thank you! I hope I have more respect for my own intelligence. What can a priest do for you? What does he know more than anybody else? But I do want to know what my own son thinks. Now, George, just answer me. If there _is_ a future life"--she spread out her hand slowly on her lap--"what do you suppose your father's doing at this moment? That's a thing I often think of, George. I don't think I want a future life if it's to be just like the past. You know--you remember how he used to be--poking about the house, and going down to the pits, and--and--swearing at the servants, and having rows with me about the accounts--and all his dear dreadful little ways? Yet, what else in the world can you imagine him doing? As to singing hymns!" She raised her hands expressively. George laughed, and puffed away at his cigarette. But as he still said nothing Lady Tressady began to frown. "That's the way you always get out of my questions," she said fretfully; "it's so provoking of you." "I've recommended you to the professional," he said, patting her hand. "What else could I do?" Her thin cheek flamed. "As if we couldn't be certain, anyway," she cried, "that the Christians don't know anything about it. As M. d'Estrelles used to say to me at Monte Carlo, if there's one thing clear, it is that we needn't bother ourselves with _their_ doctrines!" "Needn't we?" said George. Then he looked at her, smiling. "And you think M. d'Estrelles was an authority?" Odd recollections began to run through his mind of this elderly French admirer of his mother's, whom he had seen occasionally flitting about their London lodgings when, as a boy, he came up from Eton for his _exeat_.