sitting after dinner in the library at Craven Towers--his mother
lying on the sofa that had been rolled up before the fire, and
himself sprawled on the hearthrug at her feet. Already tall and
strong beyond his years and confident in the full flush of his
adolescence he had launched into a glowing anticipation of the
life that lay before him. He had noticed that his mother's answers
were monosyllabic and vague, and then when he had broken off,
hurt at her seeming lack of interest, she had suddenly spoken--telling
him what she had all the evening nerved herself to say. Her voice
had faltered once or twice but she had steadied it bravely and gone
on to the end, shirking nothing, evading nothing, dealing faithfully
with the whole sex problem as far as she was able--outraging
her own reserve that her son might learn the pitfalls and temptations
that would assuredly lie in wait for him, sacrificing her own modesty
that he might remain chaste. He remembered the vivid flush that had
risen to his face and the growing sense of hot discomfort with which
he had listened to her low voice; his half grateful, half shocked feeling.
But it was not until he had glanced furtively at her through his thick
lashes and seen her shamed scarlet cheeks and quivering downcast
eyes that he had realized what it cost her and the courage that had
made it possible for her to speak. He had mumbled incoherently,
his face hidden against her knee, and with innate chivalry had
kissed the little white hand he held between his own great brown
ones--"Keep clean, Barry," she had whispered tremulously, her
hand on his ruffled hair--"only keep clean."

And later on in the same evening she had spoken to him of the
woman who would one day inevitably enter his life. "Be gentle to
her, Barry-boy, you are such a great strong fellow, and women,
even the strongest women, are weak compared with men. We are poor