his mother should have him to see her for an hour or so five times a
year. The Nolan legacy, however, coming upon the top of this,
introduced a peculiar complication that provided much work for
tactful intermediaries, and gave great and increasing scope for
painful delicacies on the part of Mr. Benham as the boy grew up.

"I see," said the father over his study pipe and with his glasses
fixed on remote distances above the head of the current sympathizer,
"I see more and more clearly that the tale of my sacrifices is not
yet at an end. . . . In many respects he is like her. . . . Quick.
Too quick. . . . He must choose. But I know his choice. Yes,
yes,--I'm not blind. She's worked upon him. . . . I have done what
I could to bring out the manhood in him. Perhaps it will bear the
strain. . . . It will be a wrench, old man--God knows."

He did his very best to make it a wrench.



2


Benham's mother, whom he saw quarterly and also on the first of May,
because it was her birthday, touched and coloured his imagination
far more than his father did. She was now Lady Marayne, and a
prominent, successful, and happy little lady. Her dereliction had
been forgiven quite soon, and whatever whisper of it remained was
very completely forgotten during the brief period of moral
kindliness which followed the accession of King Edward the Seventh.
It no doubt contributed to her social reinstatement that her former