MRS. KEITH hardly even attempted to regain self-control, but sobbed herself into a stupor, followed by sleep. Not till the morning did she again see her son; and no human being learnt the details of that interview. She came out of it subdued, humbled, softened; for the first time with a dawning of real contrition. Giles' deep distress, his patient acceptance of his new position, his forbearance towards her, made a profound impression upon one whose thought had always been for self. Now, viewing half a lifetime of deceit with her son's eyes, she was shamed to the heart. A more difficult interview had to follow. She had promised to send for the other Colin—the true Giles—not denying that she had to ask his pardon. But this was infinitely harder. She did not love Colin as she loved Giles—for the avoidance of confusion it is better to use still the wrong names. From his childhood her knowledge of the great wrong done to him had caused a hardness and bitterness of feeling, against which she honestly fought, but which had too often mastered her. To humble herself before her own son was one thing; to humble herself before Colin was another. Subdued and softened though she was, when he came in, another spirit rose up. He murmured a slight greeting, took a seat, and waited. "Giles wished," she began, and the words stuck in her throat. "I—I—know what you must feel, of course," she muttered hurriedly. "But I meant it for the best." He made a gesture of acquiescence, gravely polite. Thus far he had said little, but had gone about with his look of "apartness" intensified, as if he were studying events from some outside region, with greater interest in their psychological aspect than in their bearing on himself. The change of relations was not less bewildering to him than to Giles, though met with outward calm. He did not pretend indifference; he had no thought of shirking his new responsibilities; and acutely as he felt for the real Colin, he had thus far rather implied than expressed sympathy. The fever of modelling possessed him still, and his one longing was to get away from everybody, though no one would have guessed the craving from his manner. Silence lasted, and those clear compelling eyes almost forced Mrs. Keith to lift hers. She knew his power, and resisted it. "I've tried—tried to be—fair to you," she faltered. "I am sure you have, Mrs. Keith—as fair as possible, under the circumstances." The use of her surname sounded strangely. "Of course I know how you must feel," she went on, swallowing something down—was it distress at the thought that "he" would be her "son" no longer? Pain in that direction was unexpected; yet, after twenty-seven years, hardly to be wondered at. "I shall leave Castle Hill at once, as soon as I can arrange where to go. Giles says the same. It doesn't matter—where?" She found herself in danger of a breakdown. "I think it matters very much."