Mrs Stanhope went on her way home fiercely indignant with this stranger who had dared to defend Clifford Thornton. In her own unreasoning anger she felt doubly fierce towards him for daring to have a defender. She had loved Marianne always, and she had disliked him always. She was of limited understanding-like all bigots. She knew nothing, and wished to know nothing about his side of the case. All she knew was that he had made her poor Marianne miserable, and had brought about her death. All she hoped now was that he might be miserable himself, for ever and ever.

In memory of her dear, dead friend, she determined that her hand should always be against him. It was a simple creed, and therefore primitive and strong, like all primitive instincts. She knew even less than Marianne about sensitive brains, delicate nervous organisms, and the surcharged world of thought and imagination. When she spoke about temperament, it was as though a blacksmith were working at a goldsmith's goblet: as though a ropemaker were working at a spider's web. She honestly believed that Marianne had been sacrificed to him. She could not realise that Marianne was made of coarser fibre than Clifford Thornton. She knew nothing about Marianne's birth, antecedents, and environment. She was quite unequipped with delicate understanding of human nature to judge between any two people-much less two married people-that unfathomable twin-mystery. But she did judge, and she condemned him without any reservations. And she thought of Marianne's son, and resolved in her own mind that he, too, should judge his father and condemn him.

"It is only right," she said to herself repeatedly, "that the boy should know, and should carry in his mind a tender memory of his mother. His father will tell him only cruel things about her. She shall not have that injustice done to her."

She did not take into account the tenderness of Alan's years; she had no instincts of mercy and pity for his young thoughts, and his young birthright of forgetfulness. She did not stop to imagine that Marianne herself would have wished him to be spared. It never entered her mind that Marianne herself would have said:

"Let the boy be-he is only a boy-let him be-what does it all matter now? and he is so young still-let him be."

She never thought of that. She filled a cup of poison ready to put to his lips at the first opportunity: the poison of disbelief and doubt.

"I must find some means of seeing him," she said to herself. "Marianne shall not have the injustice of being misinterpreted."

Full of these thoughts she paused before going into Hyde Park.

"Shall I walk through the Park, or shall I go straight to St. James's Mansions?" she asked herself. "I think I will go straight home. I am tired."

But after she had advanced a few steps, she turned back and passed into the Park, impelled to do so against her will. It was a charming evening at the beginning of April. The spring had come early, and the borders were gay with flowers. A young boy came along, whistling softly. He stopped to look at some of the beds, and then went on again. After all, he thought, it was not so bad going for this journey to Japan. And all the fellows had said they envied him. And father was better already. And that was a bully new camera they had bought to-day. And, by Jove, he had enjoyed himself yesterday. And--

He looked up and saw Mrs Stanhope.

"Alan," she said in her steely voice, which had always jarred on him. His face clouded over. His heart sank. He had always disliked her.

"Alan," she said, "I have wanted to see you. I was thinking of you this very moment. I was by your mother's grave yesterday. Shall we sit down here? It is not cold this evening."

She had kept his hand, and led him to the nearest bench. He disengaged his hand, and shrank a little from her. She did not notice that.

"Yes," she repeated. "I stood by your mother's grave yesterday. It is a beautiful stone, simple but beautiful."

"Father and I liked it," the boy said a little nervously. "We-we went there to say good-bye before-before going away, you know."

"Ah," she said, "you are going away then? Are you going to leave 'Falun'?"

"Yes," he said, "for a few months. Father is not well."

There was a pause, and then she said suddenly:

"Alan, you will never forget your dear mother, will you? She died in such a sad, sad way-it breaks one's heart to think of it-doesn't it?-all alone-without a kind word-a kind look-nothing-no one near her-no one to help her-alone."

The boy bit his lips. Something pulled at his heartstrings.

"You must always think lovingly of her," she continued. "You must always think the very best of her. She was a grand, noble woman who had not been understood. When you are older, you will see it all clearly for yourself-see it with your own eyes, not with any one else's eyes, and then you will know how unhappy she was, and how sad she was all-all the days of her married life. Poor darling, she was lonely in life and lonely in death-you must never forget that-you must be loyal to her-you, her son. You were good to her; you loved her; you would have loved her more if-if your father had allowed you, Alan."

The boy's face was rigid.

"Father never stopped me from loving mother," he said, half to himself.

"Ah," she said bitterly, "when you are older you will understand it all only too well. And meanwhile be loyal to her memory-you, her son."

The boy's face softened again. The tears came into his eyes. The appeal to his sonship touched him deeply. He said nothing, but Mrs Stanhope realised that his silence was charged with grief; for she saw the tears in his eyes, the flush on his face, and the quivering of his mouth.

"Alan," she went on, "and the pity-the pity of it all. She might be here with us now-there was no reason for her death; it is that which makes it so sad. If she had had some terrible illness, one might be comforted a little by her release; but to be cut off like this-suddenly-and in this sad, sad way-ah, how your poor father must tear his heart to remember that he had angry words with her that night-to think that but for that unfortunate incident she might be alive this very moment-to think--"

She stopped suddenly, for she had already said more than she intended. Alan turned his face to her. The flush had gone now. He looked deadly pale.

"Father was always, always good to mother," he said, in a strained tone of voice. "You were not always with us. You couldn't know."

"No, no-of course I could not know all," she said soothingly; and again she put her hand on his arm. And again he freed himself.

"But this I do know," she continued with great gentleness, "that you have lost a noble and unselfish mother who loved you with her whole heart-more than you ever knew. But I knew. I knew all her hopes and fears and ambitions for you; and I knew, too, how she yearned for the time when you would love her more and more, and understand her more and more. For a mother clings heart and soul to her son, Alan. If he does not love her, she mourns always, always."

She rose from the bench; and he rose too, his young heart torn and his young spirit troubled. He stood there looking down on the ground, overpowered with many emotions.

"Good-bye, Alan," she said. "And remember you have a friend in me. Come to me in trouble, and I will not fail you-for your dear mother's sake."

She left him, and he lingered for a moment scratching the ground with his stick. Then he went on his way to the Langham. He was not whistling now. He ran up against an old gentleman.

"Look out where you're going, my boy!" the old man said angrily. "Dreaming, I suppose. Boys didn't dream in my time. I've no patience with this generation."

At the hotel he saw Katharine, who was standing in the hall giving some instructions to the porter. She had just come back from the Tonedales, whom she had left as soon as she could. She had been thinking of him all the time, of him and his father and that metallic woman; and she could not rest until she was back again at the Langham, mounting guard, as it were, over these strangers who had come so unexpectedly into her life. She greeted the boy and spoke some kindly words, which brought a faint smile into his face.

But he slipped away from her, and locked himself up in his room.

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