Well—he mustn’t think of it. And he mustn’t let his mother think. He wondered whether he was too late, whether she had seen anything. He tried to slink past the drawing-room and up the stairs. But his mother had heard him come in. She called to him. He went to her, shame-faced, as if he had committed a sin. Her large, gentle eyes looked at him, wondering. He could see them wondering. “Wilfrid,” she said suddenly, “do you care for that little girl?” “What’s the good of my caring? I can’t marry her. I’ve just told her so.” “It’s too late. She’s in love with you. You should have told her before.” “How could I if she didn’t care? You can’t be fatuous.” “No—poor boy. Poor Effie.” “Mother—why couldn’t I have been brought up to a profession?” “You know why—you weren’t strong enough. It was as much as I could do to keep you alive.” “I’m strong enough now.” “Only because I took such care of you. Only because you hadn’t to go out and earn your own living. You’d have been dead before you were twenty if I hadn’t kept you with me.” “It would have been better if you’d let me die.” “Don’t say that, Wilfrid. What should I have done without you? What should I do without you now?” “You mean if I married?” “No, my dear. I’d be glad if you could marry. I don’t want to keep you tied to me for ever. If you can get better work and better pay by going anywhere else, I shan’t mind your leaving me.” “I shouldn’t get anything. I’m not good enough. I shall never be worth more than fifty pounds a year anywhere. We can’t live on that.” “If you could live on half my income, I’d give it you, but you couldn’t.” “No. We’ll just have to wait.” “I hope for your sake, my dear, it won’t be too long.” “What do you mean, mother?” “What did _you_ mean?” “Why, I meant we’d have to wait till I heard of something.” “You _might_ have meant something else.” She smiled. “Oh, mother—_don’t_.” “Why not?” she said cheerfully. “You know—you know I couldn’t bear it.” “You’ll have to bear it some day—I’m an old woman.” “Well, I shall be an old man—by then.” He tossed it back to her, laughing, as he left her to wash his hands and brush his hair. He laughed, to shake off her pathos and to hide his own. When he talked about waiting, he hadn’t meant what she thought he meant. He was simply trying to dismiss a too serious situation with a reassuring levity. Waiting to hear of something? Was it likely he would ever hear of anything? Could he have made a more frivolous suggestion? It was she who had faced it. She had made him see how hopeless their case was, his and Effie’s. He saw it now, as he saw his own face in the glass, between two hair-brushes, a little drawn, even now, a little sallow and haggard. Not a young face.