“I am sure that things are best for him as they are. The day-school knocks quite as many corners off him as he can stand. He hates it, but it is good for him. A public school will not be good for him. It is too rough. Instead of getting manly and hard, he will—” “My head, please.” Rickie departed in a state of bewildered misery, which was scarcely ever to grow clearer. Each holiday he found his father more irritable, and a little weaker. Mrs. Elliot was quickly growing old. She had to manage the servants, to hush the neighbouring children, to answer the correspondence, to paper and re-paper the rooms—and all for the sake of a man whom she did not like, and who did not conceal his dislike for her. One day she found Rickie tearful, and said rather crossly, “Well, what is it this time?” He replied, “Oh, mummy, I’ve seen your wrinkles—your grey hair—I’m unhappy.” Sudden tenderness overcame her, and she cried, “My darling, what does it matter? Whatever does it matter now?” He had never known her so emotional. Yet even better did he remember another incident. Hearing high voices from his father’s room, he went upstairs in the hope that the sound of his tread might stop them. Mrs. Elliot burst open the door, and seeing him, exclaimed, “My dear! If you please, he’s hit me.” She tried to laugh it off, but a few hours later he saw the bruise which the stick of the invalid had raised upon his mother’s hand. God alone knows how far we are in the grip of our bodies. He alone can judge how far the cruelty of Mr. Elliot was the outcome of extenuating circumstances. But Mrs. Elliot could accurately judge of its extent. At last he died. Rickie was now fifteen, and got off a whole week’s school for the funeral. His mother was rather strange. She was much happier, she looked younger, and her mourning was as unobtrusive as convention permitted. All this he had expected. But she seemed to be watching him, and to be extremely anxious for his opinion on any subject—more especially on his father. Why? At last he saw that she was trying to establish confidence between them. But confidence cannot be established in a moment. They were both shy. The habit of years was upon them, and they alluded to the death of Mr. Elliot as an irreparable loss. “Now that your father has gone, things will be very different.” “Shall we be poorer, mother?” “No.” “Oh!” “But naturally things will be very different.” “Yes, naturally.” “For instance, your poor father liked being near London, but I almost think we might move. Would you like that?” “Of course, mummy.” He looked down at the ground. He was not accustomed to being consulted, and it bewildered him. “Perhaps you might like quite a different life better?” He giggled.