"O surely not!" That which he meant to comfort her proved exciting. "Don't say it, Giles! So hard as I have tried to make no difference—even in my love!" "You have made none, beyond what was inevitable. Colin has the right to your greater love, and he is infinitely more lovable. Venetian glass can't be handled like granite. Come, you are not going to worry yourself! Things are all right." "I hope so. I shouldn't like to think—" She left the sentence unfinished, and began anew—"I often wonder—'can' one hold oneself even? I know what you mean by 'greater strictness' and 'Venetian glass.' Just because he is my own, I have tried to be more severe with him, and his sweetness has made it impossible. He is so lovable, as you say." "Of course your own boy is and must be more to you than all the world beside." "Yes—true," she murmured. "I should be the last ever to wish Colin to come second." Giles spoke pointedly; for Mrs. Keith's endeavours to give her ward his full rights had often resulted in giving her son less than his rights. "But here is the dog-cart." Mrs. Keith's attempts at self-analysing were brushed aside. Colin was through the front door before they could leave the library, moving with an absence of hurry, yet forestalling them. He kissed his mother, shook hands with Giles, patted the old hound who followed him with sniffs and whines, exchanged some chaff with the stout butler which set that excellent retainer grinning with delight, and finally took possession of an armchair, asking and answering questions in a soft deliberate undertone, which was the precise antithesis of his mother's variable voice. He and Giles were made after different models. A stranger might easily have set down the latter as a man of four-and-thirty, while few guessed Colin to have passed his twenty-third year. Yet less than six weeks had divided the birth of the one from the birth of the other; and each now had passed his twenty-eighth birthday. Colin was the shorter, though he gained in apparent height from his slightness. His fair pale complexion and chiselled delicacy of feature contrasted with the powerful outlines of Giles, while the finely-developed forehead spoke of intellect. The blue eyes were singular, not unlike those of Giles in colour, observant, yet dreamy. He had suffered severely in health from an accident in boyhood. A heavy blow on the head had resulted in disabling headaches, which for years prevented study. His high spirit had made him less of an invalid than might have been the case; still, education had been a negligible quantity, so far as any regular "curriculum" was concerned. He had read much by fits and starts, picking up any amount of general information, but steady work had been impossible. Foreign travel at last had been recommended, and much was expected from the three years of absence, now ended. Glad to be back! Yes, certainly. Though he had enjoyed himself no end—thanks to Giles!—with a glance at the latter.