"Now, don't think hardly of your mother. She was brought up to think all men horrible, and she never got over it. I was wild and idiotically affectionate, and couldn't understand why she held back so. When I did understand, the mischief was done; she was hurt and scared, and kept you boys from me. Didn't want you ever to be men--as if she could prevent it! She did try with me when I came back. Perhaps she'd seen and felt more than I thought. It wasn't all church nonsense about accepting your husband, however loathsome he may be to you. Your going off like that set her back again, and back she went to her church. She thought it was all my doing, and perhaps it was." "No, no," said René. "I think it was. I ought to have seen that I wasn't fit company for anyone I loved. Too far gone, I suppose, too far gone." "I'd like you to know that I'm glad it happened. It has saved me from going through life with my eyes shut. I've met good people and understood their goodness. And I've met miserable failures and seen how even they have some sweetness in their lives. And I owe it to you, father, that I have seen the wildness of life beneath the trumpery policing we call civilization, and now I feel that I shall never be blind to it." "That's all right," said his father, "if you don't let the wildness break up your own self-control. That's what happened to me. Queer how clever two men can be when they understand each other. Can you lend me half-a-sovereign, and then I'll have enough to take me over to Paris?" René gave his father ten shillings in silver, they shook hands, the old man patting the younger's shoulder, and they quitted the bar parlor together. As René was starting his engine, a lady came up and asked him to take her to an address in Holland Park. He did so. The lady looked at him curiously as she paid the fare, walked to the gate of the house, turned, hesitated, then came back. "Excuse me," she said, "you are so like someone I used to know. Aren't you Mr. Fourmy?" He looked at her, seemed to remember her, but could not place her, though he thought dimly of Scotland. "Yes," he said, "that's my name." "Mine," she said, "was Rachel Bentley. I'm married now. I recognized you at once. I was so interested coming along. I hope nothing has----" "Oh, no," said he, smiling, "I never had any money, you know. I drifted into this. I like it." "I only thought," she said vaguely. "I mean-- Oh, it doesn't matter. I'm glad it isn't that. Good-by." She seemed embarrassed by her own generous impulse, and it was a relief to him when she turned away. He waited for a moment to see if it was her own house. She opened the door with a key. He took note of the number, and, as he passed, of the cab-rank at the end of the road.