"Change!" she echoed. "It was only a change of prisons."

Mr. Fentolin shook his head slowly--a distressful gesture. Yet
all the time he had somehow the air of a man secretly gratified.

"You are beginning to depress me," he announced. "I think that
you can go away. No, stop for just one moment. Stand there in
the light. Dear me, how unfortunate! Who would have thought that
so beautiful a mother could have so plain a daughter!"

She stood quite still before him, her hands crossed in front of
her, something of the look of the nun from whom the power of
suffering has gone in her still, cold face and steadfast eyes.

"Not a touch of colour," he continued meditatively, "a figure
straight as my walking-stick. What a pity! And all the taste,
nowadays, they tell me, is in the other direction. The lank
damsels have gone completely out. We buried them with Oscar Wilde.
Run along, my dear child. You do not amuse me. You can take Gerald
with you, if you will. I have nothing to say to Gerald just now.
He is in my good books. Is there anything I can do for you, Gerald?
Your allowance, for instance--a trifling increase or an advance?
I am in a generous humour."

"Then grant me what I begged for the other day," the boy answered
quickly. "Let me go to Sandhurst. I could enter my name next week
for the examinations, and I could pass to-morrow."

Mr. Fentolin tapped the table thoughtfully with his forefinger.