did. However, while he thought the best policy was to find out what

ought to be done at once, she was all for putting off, avoiding the consideration, trusting in something that might turn up. Mr. Beresford, however, had wound himself up to this interview, and was not to be put off.

‘Between people of our sober years such questions may be discussed--may they not?’ he said. ‘I wonder what _you_ think really? There is nothing I so much wish to know--not the conventional things that everybody says--but what _you_ think. You have been my other conscience for so long,’ he added, jesuitically, in order to conceal the cunning with which he was approaching the subject--asking for her opinion without specifying the subject on which he wanted it.

But she saw through him, with a little amusement at the artifice employed. He wanted to know what she thought without asking her. Fortunately, the being asked was the thing _she_ wanted to avoid. But, just when they had got to this critical point, Edward came upstairs. He was not friendly, as he had been to his mother’s friend; he came in with the gloom upon his face, and a look of weariness. Mr. Beresford heard the door open with great impatience of the newcomer, whoever it might be. Nothing could be more inopportune. He wished Edward in Calcutta or wherever else it might be best for him to be on the other side of the seas. But, as for Mrs. Meredith, her attention fled on the moment to her boy. She forgot her friend and his questioning, and even the delicate position which she had realised, and the gravity of the relations which might ensue. All this went out of her mind in comparison with Edward’s fatigued look. She got up and went to him, putting her hand very tenderly upon his shoulder.

‘You have been working too long, dear. Oh, Edward, don’t be so anxious to get away from me! You are working as if this was your dearest wish in the world.’

‘So it is,’ he said; ‘not to leave you, mother; but to feel that I am doing something, not merely learning or enjoying myself.’

‘Edward is quite right,’ said Mr. Beresford. ‘It is by far the most worthy feeling for a young man.’

But Edward did not take this friendly support in a good spirit; he darted a half-savage glance at his backer-up.

‘Oh, if you take it in that light, that is not what I meant,’ he said. ‘I am not of that noble strain. It is not pure disinterestedness. I think it is a pity only to lose one’s advantages, and I should have some advantages of connection and that sort of thing. At least, I suppose so; and it is what is called a fine career.’

‘Yes, it is a fine career.’

‘If it is fine to separate yourself from all you care for in the world,’ cried Mrs. Meredith, ‘from all who care for you--not only must we be left behind, but when you have got beyond me, when you have a family of your own----’

‘Which I never shall have, mother.’

‘Nonsense! boys and girls say so, and end just like others; even your own, your very own must be taken from you. You must give up everything--and you call that a fine career.’

‘Men do, if women don’t,’ said the young man, not looking at her. His heart was so wrung and sore that he could not keep the gloom off his face.

‘And you don’t care what women think? You might have put off that lesson till you were a little older. At your age what your mother thinks should surely be something to you still.’

He gave her a look which was full of pain. Was that what he was thinking? Was he sure to care little for what women thought? ‘You know better, mother,’ he said harshly. He was all rubbed the wrong way--thwarted, wearied, unhappy. ‘I only came for a book,’ he continued, after a moment, picking up the first one he got hold of, and then, with a little nod to the visitor, went upstairs again. What did that visitor want here? Why did he leave his own house, and Cara alone--poor Cara!--whom nobody loved as Edward did? It would be a great deal better for Mr. Beresford if he would stay at home. After this little episode Edward sat down stubborn and unyielding to his work again. What did it matter if a man was happy or unhappy? He had his day’s work to get through all the same.

‘Don’t think him harsh. I am afraid my boy is not quite happy,’ said Mrs. Meredith, with tears in her eyes.

‘That is nothing,’ he said. ‘I am not a friend of yesterday; but he came in when we were talking----’

‘Ah, yes,’ she said, but her eyes were still full of Edward; ‘what was it we were talking about?’

‘I am afraid if you say that, it is sufficient answer to my question,’ said Mr. Beresford, more wounded than he could have supposed possible; for he wanted to be first with her, though he did not wish it in the vulgar way that was supposed.

‘You are not to be angry,’ she said, with a deprecating look, laying her hand softly on his arm; ‘you must not be hard upon me. When they are boys we wish them to be men, but anxiety grows with their growth; and now I think sometimes I should be glad to have them boys again.’

‘Boys, boys!’ he exclaimed, with natural impatience, ‘is that all you think of? Yet there are other interests in the world.’

‘How selfish I am!’ she cried, rousing herself suddenly. ‘That is true. You must forgive me; but I am so used to talk to you of everything, whatever is in my heart.’

This melted him once more. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘we talk to each other of everything; we have no secrets between us. There is nothing in the world I would not do for you, nor you, I think, for me. Do you know what people are thinking about you and me? They think that being so near we should be nearer; that we might help one another better. That was what I wanted to ask you. Don’t you think it is so?’

He wanted her to commit herself first, and she was willing enough that he should commit himself, but not that she should. She was embarrassed, yet she met his eyes with a half smile.

‘I think it is not a case for heeding what people think. Are we not very well as we are? How could we be better than as fast friends--friends through fire and water?’

‘That we should always be,’ he said, grasping her hand, ‘that we should always be; and yet without becoming less we might be more. Speak to me frankly, dear; you know all my heart. Do not you think so too?’