parlour and look through the glass partition when I was away
sometimes--just to keep an eye on things. The lameness wouldn't
hinder that . . . I'd keep you as genteel as ever I could, dear
Sophy--if I might think of it!' he pleaded.

'Sam, I'll be frank,' she said, putting her hand on his. 'If it were
only myself I would do it, and gladly, though everything I possess
would be lost to me by marrying again.'

'I don't mind that! It's more independent.'

'That's good of you, dear, dear Sam. But there's something else. I
have a son . . . I almost fancy when I am miserable sometimes that he
is not really mine, but one I hold in trust for my late husband. He
seems to belong so little to me personally, so entirely to his dead
father. He is so much educated and I so little that I do not feel
dignified enough to be his mother . . . Well, he would have to be
told.'

'Yes. Unquestionably.' Sam saw her thought and her fear. 'Still,
you can do as you like, Sophy--Mrs. Twycott,' he added. 'It is not
you who are the child, but he.'

'Ah, you don't know! Sam, if I could, I would marry you, some day.
But you must wait a while, and let me think.'

It was enough for him, and he was blithe at their parting. Not so
she. To tell Randolph seemed impossible. She could wait till he had
gone up to Oxford, when what she did would affect his life but
little. But would he ever tolerate the idea? And if not, could she