old-fashioned narrow fringe of dingy hair. He knew that in spite of
Sir Godfrey and the family estate of which she was always talking, she
was common to the heart--not a lady like Christine and his mother--and
her occasionally adopted pose of authority convulsed him with a blind,
ungovernable fury. He was too young to understand that she meant
well--was indeed good-natured and kindly enough in her natural
environment--and as she advanced upon him now, in reality to smooth his
disordered hair, he drew back, an absurd miniature replica of James
Stonehouse in his worst rages, his fists clenched, his teeth set on a
horrible recurring nausea.

"If you touch me, Edith--I'll--I'll bite you----"

"Hush, darling--you mustn't speak like that----"

"Oh, don't mind me, Christine. I'm not accustomed to respect in this
house. I don't expect it. 'Edith,' indeed! Did you ever hear such a
thing! I can't think what Jim was thinking about to allow it. He
ought to call me 'Mother'----"

Robert tore himself free from Christine's soothing embrace. He had a
moment's blinding, heart-breaking vision of his real mother. She stood
close to him, looking at him with her grave eyes, demanding of him that
he should avenge this insult. And in a moment he would be sick again.

"I wouldn't--wouldn't call you mother--not if you killed me. I
wouldn't if you put me in the fire----"

"Robert, dear."