"My dearest," said Mrs. Wornock, tenderly, slipping her arm through her son's directly they were really alone, and out of sight, in an old flower-garden walled round by dense hedges of clipped ilex, a garden laid out in a geometrical pattern, and with narrow gravel paths intersecting the flower-beds. The glory of all gardens was over. There were only a few lingering dahlias, and prim asters lifting up their gaudy discs to the sun, and beds of marigolds of different shades, from palest yellow to deepest orange. "My dearest, how glad I am to have you! I begin to live again now you have come home." "And I am very glad to be at home, mother," answered her son, smiling down upon her, fondly, protectingly, but with that light tone which marked all he said. "But it seems to me you have been very much alive while I have been away, with this young man of yours who is almost an adopted son." "My heart went out to him, Geoffrey, because of his likeness to you." "A dangerous precedent. You might meet half a dozen such likenesses in a London season. It would hardly do for your heart to go out to them all. You would be coming home with a large family--by adoption." "There is no fear of that. I don't go into society, and I don't think, if I did, I should meet any one like Allan Carew." Geoffrey could but note the tenderness in her tone as she spoke Allan's name. "And who is this double of mine, mother; and what is he, and how does he come to be engaged to that dainty, dark-eyed girl?" "You like Suzette?" "Yes, I like her--she is a nice, winning thing--not startlingly pretty; but altogether nice. I like the way that dark silky hair of hers breaks up into tiny curls about her forehead--and she has fine eyes----" "India has made you critical, Geoffrey." "Not India, but a native disposition, mother dearest. In India we have often to put up with second best in the way of beauty, faded carnations, tired eyes, hollow cheeks; but the young women have generally plenty to say for themselves. They can talk, and they can dance. They are educated for the marriage market before they are sent out." His mother laughed, and hung on to his arm admiringly. In her opinion, whatever he said was either wise or witty. All his impertinences were graceful. His ignorance was better than other people's knowledge. "You have not neglected your violin, I hope, Geoffrey?" "No, mother. My good little Strad has been my friend and comrade in many a quiet hour while the other fellows were at cards, or telling stale stories. I shall be very glad to play the old de Beriot duets again. Your fingers have not lost their cunning, I know." "I have played a great deal while you were away. I have had nothing else to think about." "Except Allan Carew." "He has not made much difference. He comes and goes as he likes--especially when Suzette is here. I sit at my organ or piano and let them wander about and amuse themselves." "What an indulgent chaperon!"