"Oh, my pretty little Mother," I said. "I do love you." "You are just like every one else," she answered me pettishly. "I'm not," I said, but of course there is no doubt about it, one does love people more in evening dress and less in a nightgown. "Did George ever see you like this?" I asked. "Often. Is he gone to bed?" "Yes, with a headache." She took a candle and we went on tiptoe to his room, Mother first taking off her high-heeled shoes, for they would tap on the parquet and make a noise. George was asleep. He had eaten one of his bananas, and the other was still by the side of his bed. "Hold the candle, Tempe!" Mother said quickly. It was that she might go down on her knees beside George. She then buried her head in the quilt and cried. "Oh, George, I am doing it for the best--I am, I am! For my poor neglected boy--my poor Ben." She upset and puzzled me so by alluding to Ben, after my conversation with him that very evening, that I dropped a blob of candle-grease on the sheet near George's arm, and I was so afraid I had awakened him, that I at once shut the stable-door--I mean blew out the candle and made a horrible smell. Mother jumped off her knees as frightened as I was--Father Mack hasn't cured George quite of swearing!--and we made a clean bolt of it back to her room, where she re-lit the candle and began to get out of her dress as quickly as she could, while I sat in a honeypot on the floor, and kept my nightgown well round my legs not to catch cold, and talked to her nicely, so as not to startle her. "Of course, Mother dear, you are doing it for the best, even if it is to run away." "Run away! Who says I am going to run away?" "George." "He told you?" "He told Lady Scilly." "Did he, then? He deserves that I should make it true." She laughed, a laugh I did not like at all. It wasn't her laugh, but I have said she was quite changed. "Oh, Mother, don't laugh like that!" "You are like the good little girl in the play, who preaches down a wicked mother's heart! Well, my dear, I'll promise you one thing. I will never run away without you. Will that be all right?" "That will be all right," I answered, much relieved. For although I am so much more "pally" with George and sorry for him, I don't want to be left with him. Perhaps I shall be allowed to run over in the _Marguerite_ from Boulogne sometimes on a visit? Then I could darn and mend for him, as Mr. Aix would not be able to spare Mother from doing for him. I did not mention Mr. Aix to her. I thought she would rather tell me all in her own time. I often wonder if we three will be happy in Boulogne, or wherever it is social ostracism takes you to? I fancy the inconvenience of running away is chiefly the want of society.