"I thank you for your frankness, Arthur. You will hardly expect me to wish you success in such a love affair, or to further your suit. But your confession--your astonishing confession--does at least supply some reason for your extraordinary behavior. For the present--_for the present_"--she spoke slowly--"I cease to press you to speak at this meeting which has been announced. It can at any rate be postponed. As to the other and graver matter, we will discuss it later--and in private. I must take time to think it over." She rose. James came forward. "May I come with you, mother?" She frowned a little. "Not now, James, not now. I must write some letters immediately, with regard to the meeting." And without another look at any of her children, she walked proudly through the room. Sir Wilfrid threw the door open for her, and murmured something in her ear--no doubt an offer of consultation. But she only shook her head; and he closed the door. Then while Arthur, his hands on his hips, walked restlessly up and down, and Coryston, lying back on the sofa, stared at the ceiling, Marcia, James, and Sir Wilfrid looked at each other in a common dismay. Sir Wilfrid spoke first: "Are we really, Arthur, to take the statement you have just made seriously?" Arthur turned impatiently. "Do I look like joking?" "I wish you did," said Sir Wilfrid, dryly. "It would be a comfort to us." "Luckily mother doesn't believe a word of it!" The voice was Coryston's, directed apparently at the Adam decoration of the ceiling. Arthur stood still. "What do you mean?" "No offense. I dare say she believed _you_. But the notion strikes her as too grotesque to be bothered about." "She may be right there," said Arthur, gloomily, resuming his walk. "Whether she is or not, she'll take good care, my boy, that nothing comes of it," was Coryston's murmured comment. But the words were lost in his mustache. He turned to look at James, who was standing at the open window gazing into the garden. Something in his brother's meditative back seemed to annoy him. He aimed at it with a crumpled envelope he held in his hand, and hit it. James turned with a start. "Look here, James--this isn't Hegel--and it isn't Lotze--and it isn't Bergson--it's life. Haven't you got a remark to contribute?" James's blue eyes showed no resentment. "I'm very sorry for you all," he said, quietly, "especially for mother." "Why?" "Because she's the oldest. We've got the future. She hasn't." The color rushed to Marcia's face. She looked gratefully at her brother. Sir Wilfrid's gray head nodded agreement.