pathos, like tattle, was disgusting to her. She was afraid of
intimacy, in case it led to confidences and tears, and so all her
life she held her son at a little distance. Her kindness and
unselfishness knew no limits, but if he tried to be dramatic and
thank her, she told him not to be a little goose. And so the only
person he came to know at all was himself. He would play
Halma against himself. He would conduct solitary conversations,
in which one part of him asked and another part answered. It was
an exciting game, and concluded with the formula: "Good-bye.
Thank you. I am glad to have met you. I hope before long we shall
enjoy another chat." And then perhaps he would sob for
loneliness, for he would see real people--real brothers, real
friends--doing in warm life the things he had pretended. "Shall I
ever have a friend?" he demanded at the age of twelve. "I don't
see how. They walk too fast. And a brother I shall never have."

("No loss," interrupted Widdrington.

"But I shall never have one, and so I quite want one, even now.")

When he was thirteen Mr. Elliot entered on his illness. The
pretty rooms in town would not do for an invalid, and so he came
back to his home. One of the first consequences was that Rickie
was sent to a public school. Mrs. Elliot did what she could, but
she had no hold whatever over her husband.

"He worries me," he declared. "He's a joke of which I have got
tired."

"Would it be possible to send him to a private tutor's?"