"Of course you do; and of course you can’t be. If he hasn’t told you he’s in love with her, it’s because he isn’t. For goodness’ sake let him be happy while he’s here, and in his own way. He’ll be going back soon enough, and you won’t want him to think of his holiday spoiled by your complaints. You’re selfish, you know. It’s yourself you’re thinking of all the time, not him. You used not to be like that." "Oh, well," she said, rising, "I suppose I must put up with it. It’s the common lot of mothers. I shan’t talk about it any more, to you or anybody." "That’s right," said Wilbraham, as they strolled towards the house. "And don’t make complaints to Harry, either. It’s not the way to get what you want from him. Of course you know that really, as well as I do. Only it’s difficult, isn’t it?" "Oh, I don’t know," she said. With the end of her emotion she seemed to have entered a mood almost of indifference. "If I’ve stood what I have all these years, and kept myself under as I have, I suppose I can go on doing it. It’s coming down here that has upset me. I’ve been happy enough in London. Of course I’ve wanted to hear about Harry, but he’s promised me now that he’ll write to me regularly. I shall be better off, in a way, than I’ve ever been. I’m _somebody_ there, you see. Here I’m nobody. I shan’t stay here a moment longer than Harry does. I hate the place now. Why have you never been to see me in London?" "I don’t know that you’ve ever asked me. Where do you live?" She told him. She was sharing a flat with an old friend, a woman who had been on the stage with her, had had an unhappy married life, but had got on in her profession. "Margaret Creedy?" said Wilbraham. "I’ve seen her act. She’s very good." "Yes, you wouldn’t have thought she began in the chorus, would you? She never had much voice, which was perhaps just as well for her, or she’d have been in musical comedy still. She doesn’t like it remembered, and of course I don’t want it known either; but we often talk over old times. It was from her, by the by, that I heard about Mrs. Bastian. She married a gentleman, like I did; but he’d come down in the world. Bastian isn’t his real name, you know.". "What is his real name?" "I don’t know. I meant to find out about him, and go and see what the girl is like. You never told me much about her, but if she’s like her mother she ought to be very pretty." "She is very pretty, but——" "Oh, you mean I ought not to let them know who I was, as they’ve been here. Perhaps I shan’t. I don’t want to give _her_ any handles against me." "By _her_ I suppose you mean Lady Brent. Everything comes back to her. You’ll think better of all that some day. I wish you’d think better of it now. Royd would be a less prickly house to live in." "Oh, I shall behave myself, never you fear," she said as she left him.