her sitting-room that she might intercept him. After a moment's
scrutiny she said, in a low, hard tone:

"You have spent the evening with Miss Jocelyn again."

He made no reply.

"Are you a man of honor?"

His pallid face crimsoned instantly, and his hands clenched with
repressed feeling, but he still remained silent. Neither did he
appear to have the power to meet his mother's cold, penetrating
glance.

"It would seem," she resumed, in the same quiet, incisive tone,
"that my former suggestions have been unheeded. I fear that I must
speak more plainly. You will please come with me for a few moments."

With evident reluctance he followed her to a small apartment, furnished
richly, but with the taste and elegance of a past generation. He had
become very pale again, but his face wore the impress of pain and
irresolution rather than of sullen defiance or of manly independence.
The hardness of the gold that had been accumulating in the family
for generations had seemingly permeated the mother's heart, for the
expression of her son's face softened neither her tone nor manner.
And yet not for a moment could she be made to think of herself
as cruel, or even stern. She was simply firm and sensible in the
performance of her duty. She was but maintaining the traditional
policy of the family, and was conscious that society would thoroughly
approve of her course. Chief of all, she sincerely believed that