Burma--Burma, the land of the Pagoda and Golden Umbrella. Somehow the
very name fired his imagination and thrilled his blood.

After sitting in the library, greedily devouring information, he
strolled back to Lincoln Square, in time for dinner, and all that
evening he kept his great news to himself. It would have seemed
natural for an only son to carry such important tidings to his mother;
but Mrs. Shafto was the last woman to welcome his confidences. She was
entirely without the maternal instinct and, armed with a certain fierce
reserve, held her son inflexibly at arm's length. A stranger would
scarcely have discovered the relationship--unless they happened to note
that the pair walked to church together on Sunday, and that she pecked
his cheek of a night before retiring. As a matter of course, she made
use of Douglas and, insisting on maternal claims, thrust on him
disagreeable interviews, sent him messages, borrowed his money--when
short of change--and allowed him to pay her taxis. Honestly, she did
not care for the boy. He was too detached and self-contained; he had
such odd ideas and resembled his father in many respects--especially in
appearance--though Douglas's expression was keener and more animated,
he had the same well-cut features, fine head, and expressive dark grey
eyes.

Yes, he recalled too forcibly a dead man whom she had neglected,
detested and deceived. And as for Douglas, for years he had been
sensible of the smart of a baffled instinct, a hunger for a mother's
love and affection, which had never been his--and never would be his.

In the drawing-room, after dinner, the boarders were amusing themselves
as usual and making a good deal of noise, yet somehow the circle
presented an air of rather spurious gaiety. Mrs. Shafto, in a smart