After all, he was grown up and a man does not tell his mother everything. But unless he is a fool, he tells her the things which she is bound in any case to find out, and if he had foreseen the certainty of her finding out he would, not being a fool, have told her these. He did not foresee, because Anne did not read newspapers, but she had neighbours who did and who told her, with comments, of the storm which presently broke out in the columns of the _Sunday Judge_, and of Mr. Travers’ will, which received a small paragraph in the paper when it was proved. “There was a time when you and me didn’t go in for secrets,” she said to him. “You’ve not had much to say to me of late and I’ve not seen much of you, either, with the hours you’re keeping, but I’d put it down to love. I know a man’s not rational when he’s courting, but it seems there’s a lot about my son that I’ve to learn. Why didn’t you tell me about Mr. Travers? Did you think I’d steal the money off you?” “Of course not, mother, but I meant to come to you with a finished tale, not one that’s only just begun. I’m engaged in a business affair of which I was going to tell you when it was complete.” “_Yes_,” she said, “I see. You’re risking your money. If you came out on the right side, you’d tell me about it, and if you lost you’d forget to tell me. Are you losing?” “It’s early days to say.” “Then maybe I’m still in time to nip this in the bud. What’s this about the _Sunday Judge?_” “I Have you seen it?” he asked. “Aye. You’re the talk of the street.” “That’s splendid,” he let slip before he was aware of it. “Splendid! There’s a gentleman writing to the paper to say that you’re trading in immorality.” “I wrote that letter myself,” grinned Sam. “You did what?” “I’m afraid I shall never make you understand.” “I doubt you won’t. Lying to me like that. Expecting me to believe you write to the paper about yourself and call yourself hard names. And the letter’s signed ‘Truth-teller,’ too. It’s printed in the paper that my son has lifted the lid from the cesspool and let loose a smell to make decent people vomit.” “Yes. I know. Advertising is a coarse art.” “Your name’s blackened for ever. And it’s my name, Sam, and the name your father gave me. It’s the name of honest folk and----” “Mother, mother, don’t I tell you that it’s all advertisement?” “What you tell me and what I can believe are coming to be two different things. I know what an advertisement in the paper is and I know what a letter is. This is a letter.” Sam felt the hopelessness of further argument.