worries," says her son, rather coldly. "If I have wasted a few
hundred on a race here and there, it is all I have done. When the
property came into my hands it was dipped very deeply."

"You would accuse your father----" begins she hotly.

Rylton pauses. "No; not my father," says he distinctly, if gently.

"You mean, then, that you accuse _me!"_ cries she, flashing round at
him.

All at once her singularly youthful face grows as old as it ought to
be--a vindictive curve round the mouth makes that usually charming
feature almost repulsive.

"My dear mother, let us avoid a scene," says her son sternly. "To
tell you the truth, I have had too many of them of late."

Something in his manner warns her to go no farther in the late
direction. If she is to win the cause so close to her heart, she had
better refrain from recrimination--from an accusation of any sort.

"Dearest Maurice," says she, going to him and taking his hand in
hers, "you know it is for your sake only I press this dreadful
matter. She is so rich, and you--we--are so poor! She has a house in
Surrey, and one in the North--delightful places, I have been
told--and, of course, she would like you to keep up your own house
in town. As for me, all I ask is this old house--bare and
uncomfortable as it is."