And yet she knew that she was listening--listening in dread--for a footstep in the house. That again was absurd. Arthur was staying with friends on the further side of the country, and was to leave them after dinner by motor. He could not be home till close on midnight; and there would be no chance of her seeing him--unless she sent for him--till the following morning, after the arrival of the letter. _Then_--she must face him. But still the footstep haunted her imagination, and the remembrance of him as he had stood, light and buoyant, on the floor of the House of Commons, making his maiden speech. In April--and this was July. Had that infatuation begun even then, which had robbed her of her dearest--her Benjamin? She fell into a restless sleep after a while, and woke suddenly, in alarm. There was somebody approaching her room--evidently on tiptoe. Some one knocking--very gently. She sat up, trembling. "Come in!" The door opened--and there was Coryston. She fell back on her cushions, astonished and annoyed. "I said I was not to be disturbed, Coryston." He paused on the threshold. "Am I disturbing you? Wouldn't you like me to read to you--or something?" His tone was so gentle that she was disarmed--though still annoyed. "Come in. I may perhaps point out that it's a long time since you've come to see me like this, Coryston." "Yes. Never mind. What shall I read?" She pointed to a number of the _Quarterly_ that was lying open, and to an article on "The later years of Disraeli." Coryston winced. He knew the man who had written it, and detested him. But he sat down beside her, and began immediately to read. To both of them his reading was a defense against conversation, and yet to both of them, after a little while, it was pleasant. Presently indeed he saw that it had soothed her and that in spite of her efforts to keep awake she had fallen fitfully asleep again. He let the book drop, and sat still, studying his mother's strong, lined face in its setting of gray hair. There was something in her temporary quiescence and helplessness that touched him; and it was clear to him that in these last few months she had aged considerably. As he watched, a melancholy softness--as of one who sees deeper than usual into the human spectacle--invaded and transformed his whole expression; his thin body relaxed; his hands dropped at his side. The dead quiet of the house also oppressed him--like a voice--an omen. He knew that she had seen Enid Glenwilliam that morning. A little note from Marion Atherstone that afternoon spoke anxiety and sympathy. "Enid confesses she was violent. I am afraid it was a painful scene." And now there was Arthur to be faced--who would never believe, of course, but that his mother had done it.