‘So did I. We were a pair of fools, it seems. And there’s an end of _that_.’ With a gesture he dismissed the subject, and added, almost in his normal voice, ‘What about the meeting? Any luck?’ ‘Yes. People are quite keen. But—you’ll hardly feel like speaking.’ ‘Oh, I’ll speak all right. The King’s affairs come a long way first. I’ve had enough of false perspectives this morning. I’ll probably speak all the better for having—flung in everything.’ He sighed. ‘Give me to-morrow, Mums, to pull myself together, and I’ll do any mortal thing that’s required of me. But I can’t show up yet—you understand? And it’s you that must do the telling—as before!’ A spasm of pain crossed his face and she passed a hand over his hair. He drew back sharply. ‘Oh—not that,’ he murmured; then checked himself and tried to smile. ‘Sorry. I’m feeling—all raw, Mother. I can’t be civil even to you.’ He could not tell her why the feel of a woman’s hand on his hair was unendurable, and would be, for some time to come. ‘I understand, dear,’ she said, and turned to go. ‘Shall I send anything to the studio?’ He shook his head. ‘Later on, perhaps. Dinner time. You might come up yourself.’ ‘Of course I will.’ And so she left him. Lunch was nearly over when she got back. They had kept some hot for her; but she hardly touched it. Briefly, without comment, she told them her news: and escaped with Keith into the study. To him she could speak more freely. He loved Mark like a brother; a good deal more, indeed, than the average brother: and she knew—though neither had spoken of it—that he had shared her distrust of Bel. But her thoughts and her words were of Mark only as she stood beside the man who so intimately shared their lives, her small hand clenched upon the edge of the high mantelshelf; tears in her eyes; but none in her voice. ‘He faces trouble so exactly like his father,’ she said, when she had told him of Mark’s refusal to postpone the meeting. ‘But Richard’s phlegm went deeper. Mark, underneath, has all my terrible sensibility; though he won’t let me see it except accidentally.’ Keith said nothing. He was not given to superfluous comment; and on the whole she found his silences more satisfactory than other people’s talk. He knew she was more or less thinking aloud. She was not even looking at him, but at a full-length photograph of her husband—a powerful figure of a man. ‘It’s so strange,’ she went on in the same subdued tone. ‘I sometimes see Richard’s very self looking at me out of Mark’s eyes. When the look comes I seem actually to feel him there. Twice this morning I’ve seen it. Once when Mark spoke of war and again when he spoke of—that wretched girl. Oh Keith—I hate her!’ The low voice broke unmistakably; and she bowed her forehead on the back of her hand.