He looked over her head at Henry, shrugged his shoulders just perceptibly, and made as if to turn back to the window again. Either that shrug, or the faintly sarcastic lift of the eyebrows that accompanied it, brought a sort of broken gasp to Mrs. March’s lips. She put out her hand, touched his coat sleeve with her finger-tips, and said: “Anthony—it’s Anthony—oh, Henry, it’s Anthony!” She backed a little at each repetition of the name, looked wildly round, and sinking on to the nearest chair, burst into tears. “Henry—oh, please somebody speak,” she sobbed. “It’s all right, Aunt Rosa. I’m not a ghost,” said Anthony in his driest voice. Henry experienced a cold dread of what his mother would say next. She had talked so much and thought so incessantly of Luttrell Marches. Latterly she had been so sure of Henry’s ownership, and so proud of it. What would she say now—as she dropped her hands from her face and gazed with streaming eyes at Anthony, who regarded her quizzically? “Tony, you’re so dreadfully changed. That fearful scar—oh, my dear, where have you been all this time? We thought you were dead. I don’t know how I recognised you. And you were _such_ a pretty little boy, my dear. I used to be jealous because you had longer eyelashes than Henry, but you haven’t now.” “Haven’t I?” said Anthony, with perfect gravity. He took his aunt’s plump white hand and gave it a squeeze and a pat. “It’s very nice of you to welcome me, Aunt Rosa. The scar isn’t as bad as it looks, and Henry’s going to lend me a razor and some clothes.” It was later, when Anthony could be heard splashing in the bathroom, that Mrs. March beckoned Henry into her room, flung her arms round his neck, and burst into tears all over again. “My poor boy,” she sobbed, “it’s so hard on you—about Luttrell Marches, I mean—do you mind dreadfully?” “Not an atom. Besides, I knew Tony was alive; I always told you he would turn up.” “I couldn’t think of any one but him at first,” said Mrs. March, sniffing gently. “Then afterwards it came over me Henry won’t have the place—and I couldn’t help crying because, of course, one does get to count on a thing, with every one saying to me as they did, ‘_Of course_ your son comes into Luttrell Marches, such a beautiful place,’—and so it is, and I did think it was yours, and what I felt about it was, if I feel badly about it, what must Henry feel? You see, don’t you?” Henry endeavoured to disengage himself. “Yes, Mother, but you needn’t worry—you really needn’t. Look here, you dress and don’t cry any more. I’ve got to telephone.” Mrs. March clasped her hands about his arm. “Henry, wait, just a minute,” she said. “That Miss Smith—you’re not still thinking about her, are you?” Henry laughed. “I am,” he said.