“Anywhere. I want a little talk with you--one of our own old gossips, mother. It is impossible to obtain the least chance of an uninterrupted talk here.” Yet as he spoke, his heart sank within him. It seemed as if his confession would be more difficult to-day than ever. To make his path more thorny, that beloved face looked so confiding, so sure that there could not be the shadow of a secret, that it would have been a thousand times easier to walk up to the cannon’s mouth, than to speak the few words that must break forever the steady bond linking them together. But for all Mrs. Desfrayne’s calm, suave looks, she was keenly watching her son. His absence alone had hindered her from finding out long ago that some shadow lay between them. Her practised, maternal eyes could read him through. “What has happened, and why is he afraid to tell me?” she meditated, while to outward seeming engaged in regarding the pleasant scene about her with half-childish interest. Her brain ran swiftly over every imaginable train of events, possible or impossible, that might have happened, seeking some clue to the evident mystery. Not for a moment did her mind revert to what, after all, was the most simple and obvious explanation. They moved to quit the gardens. “Is not that the Guiscardini?” she asked of Paul. “I believe so.” Mrs. Desfrayne had put up her glass, so the look and tone with which her inquiry was answered escaped her. “I don’t know why,” she continued; “but I have taken an inveterate dislike to that woman. She reminds me of a magnificent cobra. You know, Paul, I have a foolish way of taking likes and dislikes.” At the next step she encountered Miss Turquand. In spite of her resolve to cultivate the young girl’s friendship, a cold inclination of the head was all that passed between them. A warmer salutation to Lady Quaintree followed, but Mrs. Desfrayne was too impatient to hear what her son had to say, to be able to stop just then for a little idle, sunshiny gossip. Paul handed her into the brougham that was in waiting. It was a hired one, as Mrs. Desfrayne always remembered as she was about to enter it. She had longed for the days when either by some brilliant matrimonial stroke on her own part, or that of her son, she should be the happy possessor of such carriages and horses as might please her fancy. Yet now she was secretly determined to hinder, if possible, her son’s acceptance of a fortune that far exceeded her most sanguine dreams. With anxiety she regarded Paul’s face as he seated himself beside her. He was ashy pale, and his eyes were bright with the brightness of fever. “Home,” she said to the coachman. Too wary to hasten the unwilling confession by ill-timed or injudicious questions, Mrs. Desfrayne nestled back in her cozy corner, and began to flirt her garden-fan, waiting patiently.