"Now to be practical," he said to himself. He had not seen his mother for a fortnight. She lived in Kensington Square. "I must really go and see my mother!" The cab drove quickly; the little grey house was soon reached. David opened the door with his latch-key and rushed upstairs into the small drawing-room, furnished in white and green, with fresh flowers on the mantelpiece, and many shelves of vellum-bound books. A bronze lamp hung from the ceiling, and its globe, covered in violet silk, cast a light like that of the early dawn in hilly regions. A faint odour of lavender filled the air. In one corner of the room there was a chess-table with its chessmen showing an interrupted game. A velvet footstool, much indented by the pressure of a firm foot, stood in front of the carved armchair in which Mrs. Rennes usually sat. Her work-basket, lined with blue satin and shining with steel fittings, stood in its customary place on a gipsy stool near the fireplace. A few old English prints hung on the walls, and between the windows there was a Chippendale cabinet filled with Worcester and Crown Derby china. The aspect of all things was restful, emotionless, and some of its calm seemed to overtake and soothe David's agitated spirit. He sat down at the piano and played, with much passion, bits from Wagner's "_Tristan_," the first performance of which he had seen at Munich. "Good Heavens!" he thought. "What a genius! What a soul! What a phrase!" Suddenly the door opened and Agnes Carillon was ushered in. She hesitated a second, and then recognised Rennes, who had his back to the light. Her first instinct was to retreat; her first feeling was a strange sensation of pleasure and fear. His usually cold and wearied face took an expression of controlled but unmistakable delight. She blushed, though not with resentment, yet she avoided, by appearing to have some difficulty with her muff, his outstretched hand. "I have called on your mother," said she. "I thought you would be on your way to Rome." Her lips were red and rather full: her cheeks were pink, her throat and brows were white. Her demeanour was, while modest, neither shy nor self-conscious. David was struck by her height and the extreme slightness of her figure. She wore a large Gainsborough hat with long plumes, a black gown, and a collar of old _point de Venise_. She had come up from the country, and her presence brought its freshness. "Why are you in town?" he asked abruptly. "I was bored at home." "And the trousseau?" "The trousseau?" she said, lifting her eyes for the first time to his. "They say it is unlucky to try on your wedding-dress," he continued, seeking relief in the very torture of reminding himself that the date of her marriage with Lord Reckage was fixed. "I never think about luck," she answered. "I met Reckage at the play last night. I lunched with him to-day," said Rennes. "I am so glad that you are friends. I want you to like him."