"This is really too much," she said passionately. "First Aunt Sarah, and now you, attacking the things I hold most dear. You must excuse me if I go upstairs; I'm too upset to eat any more dinner." She left the room, her head held high, and went up to the day nursery, where Geoffrey was having his supper, with a book propped up in front of him. "Darling," she said sweeping in, her pale frock trailing, "shall I come and sit with you for a little, while you finish your supper?" As Geoffrey pushed the book away and edged his cocoa forward, she frowned. "You're not supposed to read at meals, not even at supper," she said sharply. "I've told you that before, haven't I, Geoffrey?" He did not answer. "Darling," she went on, unconsciously introducing a grieved note into her voice, "you don't like to vex me I know, but it does vex me when you go against my wishes, and still more when you won't admit to me that you are wrong." "I like reading," said Geoffrey rebelliously, "and it's only a few minutes anyhow." "But that doesn't make it any less wrong. You know that, Geoffrey." Again there was no answer, and Edith sighed. "I don't know what makes you so unresponsive," she reproached him. "It's only this last few months that you've persistently opposed me. You used to confide in me and trust me, like Hugh and Lavinia." "They're only babies," muttered Geoffrey, awkward and embarrassed. "Do you mean that because you're a big boy and go to school you feel you can't be open with me any longer?" "I don't know," said Geoffrey wearily. "My dearest boy, it's all so simple," Edith spoke persuasively. "I must be the judge of what is best for you; you must remember I'm your mother." She drew herself up with dignity, and went on, "You can surely understand, dear, that I must know all that my children are doing and thinking so that I can guide them. Now tell me you were wrong, Geoffrey, and hurry into bed." "I'm sorry," said Geoffrey. "Good-night, Mother." He raised his face to be kissed, but she knew that he had not capitulated; he had merely eluded her. So far the nursery had not proved as soothing as she had hoped. She went into the night nursery where Lavinia and Hugh were sleeping, and turned on the light. Everything was in order. A little pile of clothes was neatly folded on the rush-bottomed, white-painted chair beside each small bed; the curtains were undrawn; the window open just enough to make the room fresh and sweet. Edith's forehead smoothed itself as she looked about and was satisfied. The small sleepers never stirred; they lay hygienically without pillows, breathing quite correctly through their noses. Edith felt reassured and quieted. She remembered how difficult it had been for nearly a year to induce Lavinia to go to sleep without sucking a thumb, and how she, alone, had persevered in the attempt to break this habit which nurse was confident would cure itself in time.