With an amused smile he glanced down at her, and said simply, "Mother?" in a tone of badinage, as if paying her off in her own coin by replying to her with a single word. "What was that you held in your hand and dropped into the bag as I came in?" she asked with reproachful earnestness, looking up fixedly into his eyes, as though she would pierce to his innermost thoughts. He put his hand on her shoulder playfully, and smoothed one of the black silk strings of her black bonnet with his thumb and finger, returning her steady gaze with a steady eye and a free smile. "That, mother," he answered, "is the countersign for thieves." "The countersign for thieves! What do you mean, Henry; you ought not to bandy words with your mother." "Indeed, I am not playing with words. I am only describing the weapon and its use as briefly as possible. I was looking at my revolver, for I was just about to set out on a journey. You see, if a thief comes up to a man armed with a revolver, and demands the man's purse, the man produces that revolver, and the thief says, "Pass on, friend." If a thief who has stolen money meets the man he stole it from, or a policeman, and can pull out a revolver, then he can say to the man or the policeman, "Let me pass, or I will shoot you down;" or suppose the thief finds the odds are against him, he can put the barrel to his own temple, and pass the foe in spite of numbers. Now, mother, don't you think my explanation is very clever and very exhaustive?" He placed his two hands on the widow's shoulders, and pushed her back arm's length, dropped his head roguishly over his shoulder, and laughed a soft laugh, which seemed to invite her to enjoy his cleverness and be amused at the humour of the explanation. Mrs. Grey did not smile. For a moment her face grew puckered and perplexed. In her eyes shone the light of a mental conflict between anger and tears. The conflict ended in a few moments. She threw herself into a chair and covered her face with her hands. She neither stormed nor wept. He hastened to her with compunctious solicitude. He knelt on one knee by her side, and put his powerful arm round her emaciated shoulders, and with the hand of his other arm gently drew down her hands from her face. "Mother! mother!" he pleaded, in a tone of passionate tenderness. "I did not mean to annoy or trouble you. I was only a little wilfully following out a fancy, a conceit. It was a foolish vanity that made me seem to play with your questions. You know, my own mother, I would not give you any pain I could help, for all the world. Forgive me, and let us drop the nonsense. Forgive me, and let us speak of something else."