While Philip was conscious that his small world had changed much in the years that marked the limits of his memory, his mother was still precisely the same as he recalled her, returning to his first vague impression of people and things. She was not and had never been an intellectual woman perhaps, but to him she stood for that which was most steadfast and purposeful. Nor was she hard with all her splendid strength. Her judgments were infinitely more generous than those of most women. “You are not going out, Philip?” his mother asked, observing that he was ready for the street. “It's almost supper-time.” “I won't keep you waiting, mother; I am just going down-town to post some letters.” “Yes, dear, but do be here for supper.” “I shall be.” He turned back into the sitting-room, intending to leave the house by the side door. His mother followed him, and on the threshold he faced her again. “What is it?” he asked, “anything you want from down-town?” “No, dear, only I haven't told you, and I wish to now. I expect Anson home to-night. He will remain over Sunday. Do be nice to him.” She spoke appealingly, for Philip's face darkened at the news. “Am I not always nice to him? I mean to be for your sake.” “Yes, but you seem so far apart, and you are brothers.” “Oh, it's all right, mother, and we get along peaceably enough, considering how we hate each other. There, dear, you can't reconcile the utterly unreconcilable, so don't spend your precious strength in trying to.” And Philip, closing the door after him, went down the steps and into the street. “So,” he muttered, “Anson will be here to-morrow and I shall have to endure his presence for at least a part of one penitential day.” The one cordial emotion that the brothers shared in common was hatred one for the other. As children they had eased this rancor by a frequent exchange of blows, but now, unhappily for their peace of mind, they were past that sort of thing.