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It was not Hester’s face that she was seeing now, as she stood, looking down into the flames; it was her son’s; when he had told her; a face of fear. It had been because of fear that he had, till now, told her nothing and she had known that she must hide from him at once, lest he should guess at hers—and see his own too plainly; and responding to their peril with an automatic swiftness she had said: ‘My darling! I’m so glad! Tell me all about it.’

Not a word of reproach, but Clive, holding her, his face against her shoulder, had said: ‘Forgive me, Mummy;—but I cared so desperately; I was so afraid she wouldn’t have me; I couldn’t bear to speak of it—even to you—till I was sure.’

‘Of course—of course. Of course I understand,’ she said. And she had understood; but most of all that had he been sure of her liking the woman he loved he must have confided in her. He was not sure. He was afraid. But she sustained and reassured him. The lover’s radiance flowered from him as he told her all about his wonderful Hester. She was a modern girl, very modern, a product of Girton