His mother stooped over and kissed him where he lay smiling. "Well,
that's good. After all, it's you I cared for. Now I can say
good-night." But she lingered to tuck him in a little, from the
persistence of the mother habit. "I wish you may never do anything that
you will be sorry for."

"Well, I won't--if it's a good action."

They laughed together, and she left the room, still looking back to see
if there was anything more she could do for him, while he lay smiling,
intelligently for what she was thinking, and patiently for what she was
doing.




VII.

Even in the time which was then coming and which now is, when successful
authors are almost as many as millionaires, Verrian's book brought him a
pretty celebrity; and this celebrity was in a way specific. It related
to the quality of his work, which was quietly artistic and psychological,
whatever liveliness of incident it uttered on the surface. He belonged
to the good school which is of no fashion and of every time, far both
from actuality and unreality; and his recognition came from people whose
recognition was worth having. With this came the wider notice which was
not worth having, like the notice of Mrs. Westangle, since so well known
to society reporters as a society woman, which could not be called
recognition of him, because it did not involve any knowledge of his book,
not even its title. She did not read any sort of books, and she