out a visit home, having alleged the claims of study; and this morning a characteristically trustful letter from his mother had shadowed forth Omens. She had spoken again of "getting on;" and as fifty-four wasn't so very on, he couldn't shake off the thought that something more serious than she had ever admitted must be—pushing it. Furthermore there was the phrase "what little we have left." Which seemed to imply that one day there mightn't be any.
He knew that if he threw down his books and took the next train out from the North Station to Aldergrove his mother would meet him with the same old flush of pleasure on her faded cheeks, the same girlish smile, the spontaneous, whimsical baby-talk phrases that she kept inventing with incredible resourcefulness. They would play the Egmont and Coriolanus overtures, four-hand; the chords in the base would tire her at the same old spots, and she would have to stop and make a cup of tea which would turn into at least four, very weak. Her quiet gaieties would reassure him as ever, but beneath them, as ever, he would catch glimpses of the tragic figure she essentially was: a little New England Duse. That divine credulity, that eternal defencelessness, that deep pathetic faith in—God save the mark—him!
For the time being whatever signals his ears were attuned to catch were muffled by the louder protests of his own endangered plans. He was in the grip of a sense of frustration which he had been unable to for-
