"He paid for the wine." It occurred to her that she might now surely delight him. "Then he wanted to buy a bottle for me," she continued, eagerly, "just to spite the Duchess. 'If _she_ can have wine,' says he, 'there isn't no good reason why _you_ got to go dry.' But I couldn't see it. 'Oh, come on!' says he. 'What's the matter with you? Have a drink.' 'No, you don't!' says I. 'Why not?' says he." She drew the boy a little closer, and, in the pause she patted his hand. "'Because,' says I," she whispered, tenderly, "'I got a son; and I _don't want him to do no drinking when he grows up_!'" She paused again--that the effect of the words and of the caress might not be interrupted. "'Come off!' says Lord Wychester," she went on; "'you haven't got no son.' 'You wouldn't think to look at me,' says I, 'that I got a son seven years old the twenty-third of last month.' 'To the tall timber!' says he. 'You're too young and pretty. I'll give you a thousand dollars for a kiss.' 'No, you don't!' says I. 'Why not?' says he. 'Because,' says I, 'you don't.' 'I'll give you two thousand,' says he." She was interrupted by the boy; his arms were anxiously stealing round her neck. "'Three thousand!' says he." "Mother," the boy whispered, "did you give it to him?" Again, she drew him to her: as all mothers will, when, in the twilight, they tell tales to their children, and the climax approaches. "'Four thousand!' says he." "Mother," the boy implored, "tell me quick! What did you say?" "'Lord Wychester,' says I, 'I don't give kisses,' says I, 'because my son doesn't want me to do no such thing! No, sir! Not for a million dollars!'" She was then made happy by his rapturous affection; and she now first perceived--in a benighted way--that virtue was more appealing to him than the sum of her physical attractions. Upon this new thought she pondered. She was unable to reduce it to formal terms, to be sure; but she felt a new delight, a new hope, and was uplifted, though she knew not why. Later--at the crisis of their lives--the perception returned with sufficient strength to illuminate her way.... Presently the boy broke in upon her musing. "It was blondes Lord Wychester liked," he remarked, with pride; "wasn't it, mother?" "Slim blondes," she corrected. "Bleached blondes?" She was appalled by the disclosure; and she was taken unaware: nor did she dare discover the extent, the significance, of this new sophistication, nor whence it came, lest she be all at once involved in a tangle of explanation, from which there could be no sure issue. She sighed; her head drooped, until it rested on his shoulder, her wet lashes against his cheek--despairing, helpless. "What makes you sad?" he asked.