then—would his punishment for that moment's blind revenge for grievous wrong begin! What on this earth of God's was more disproportioned, and wickedly extravagant, more crassly stupid, than the arrangements of his most perfect creature, man? What a devil was man, who could yet rise to such sublime heights of love and heroism! What a ferocious brute, the most ferocious and cold-blooded brute that lived! Of all creatures most to be stampeded by fear into a callous torturer! 'Fear'—thought Felix—'fear! Not momentary panic, such as makes our brother animals do foolish things; conscious, calculating fear, paralyzing the reason of our minds and the generosity of our hearts. A detestable thing Tryst has done, a hateful act; but his punishment will be twentyfold as hateful!' And, unable to sit and think of it, Felix rose and walked on through the fields.... CHAPTER XXV He was duly at Transham station in time for the London train, and, after a minute consecrated to looking in the wrong direction, he saw his mother already on the platform with her bag, an air-cushion, and a beautifully neat roll. 'Travelling third!' he thought. 'Why will she do these things?' Slightly flushed, she kissed Felix with an air of abstraction. “How good of you to meet me, darling!” Felix pointed in silence to the crowded carriage from which she had emerged. Frances Freeland looked a little rueful. “It would have been delightful,” she said. “There was a dear baby there and, of course, I couldn't have the window down, so it WAS rather hot.” Felix, who could just see the dear baby, said dryly: “So that's how you go about, is it? Have you had any lunch?” Frances Freeland put her hand under his arm. “Now, don't fuss, darling! Here's sixpence for the porter. There's only one trunk—it's got a violet label. Do you know them? They're so useful. You see them at once. I must get you some.” “Let me take those things. You won't want this cushion. I'll let the air out.” “I'm afraid you won't be able, dear. It's quite the best screw I've ever come across—a splendid thing; I can't get it undone.” “Ah!” said Felix. “And now we may as well go out to the car!” He was conscious of a slight stoppage in his mother's footsteps and rather a convulsive squeeze of her hand on his arm. Looking at her face, he discovered it occupied with a process whose secret he could not penetrate, a kind of disarray of her features, rapidly and severely checked, and capped with a resolute smile. They had already reached the station exit, where Stanley's car was snorting. Frances Freeland looked at it, then, mounting rather hastily, sat, compressing her lips. When they were off, Felix said: “Would you like to stop at the church and have a look at the brasses to your grandfather and the rest of them?” His mother, who had slipped her hand under his arm again, answered: