"It is not that which I fear," said the mother faintly, with a terrible
consciousness that her son,--her hope, her pride, the delight of her
heart,--had entered on a course which, if persevered in, must end in his
ruin both of body and soul. "I tremble at the thought of the misery
which you are bringing on yourself. These men are making you their
victim: they are blinding your eyes; they are throwing a net around you,
and you have not the resolution to break from the snare."

"They are very pleasant, jovial fellows!" cried Philip, trying to hide
under an appearance of careless gaiety the real annoyance which he felt
at the words of his mother.

"I've asked them to dine here to-day and--"

"I shall not appear at the table," said Lady Grange, drawing herself up
with dignity; "and if your father should arrive--"

"Oh! he won't arrive to-night; he never travels so late."

"But, Philip," said the lady earnestly again laying her cold hand on his
arm. She was interrupted by her wayward and undutiful son.

"Mother, there's no use in saying anything more on the subject; it only
worries you, and puts me out of temper. I can't, and I won't be uncivil
to my friends;" and turning hastily round, Philip quitted the apartment.

"Friends!" faintly echoed Lady Grange, as she saw the door close behind
her misguided son. "Oh!" she exclaimed, throwing herself on a sofa, and
burying her face, "was there ever a mother--ever a woman so unhappy as
I am!"