Lucy was in the position of a spectator while all this was going on, and though she was not a great observer, something jarred in this little scene, she could not tell what. She surprised a glance from the mother to the son, which did not chime in with her words, and Bertie himself did not respond with enthusiasm. “I don’t know if I am a comfort,” he said; “but here I am anyhow, and very glad to see an old friend.” “I hear you are coming out as a literary character, Bertie?” “I am trying to write a little; it seems the best trade nowadays. I believe there are heaps of money to be made by it,” he said, with that air of careless grandeur which is so delightful to the unsophisticated imagination, “and not much trouble. The only thing is to get one’s hand in.” “That is what I was telling Lady Randolph,” said his mother, her thin hands clasping and unclasping; “to get an opening--that is all you want.” “But you require to be very clever, Bertie,” said Lady Randolph, gravely disapproving, “to make anything by writing. I have heard people say in society--” “No,” said the young man, “not at all, it is only a knack; there is nothing that costs so little trouble. You want training for every other profession, but anybody can write. I think I know what I am about.” Then there was a momentary silence, Mrs. Russell looked at her son with wistful admiration, not unmingled with a furtive and painful doubt, while Lady Randolph contemplated him with a severity which was resentful, as if poor Bertie’s pretensions did her, or any one else, any harm. This pause, which was somewhat embarrassing, was broken by Jock, whose small voice, suddenly uplifted, startled them all. “Is it stories he writes, Lucy? I would like to learn to write stories. I think I will stay here,” he said. But Jock was confused by the attention attracted by his utterance, and the faces of all those grown-up people turned toward him. “I can’t write at all yet,” he said, growing very red, planting himself firmly against Lucy, and facing the company, half apologetic, half defiant. Between pot-hooks and novels there is a difference; but why should not the one branch of skill be learned as well as the other? Jock knew no reason why. CHAPTER XXI. POWER.