He jumped up and seized her roughly by the arm. "Show him to me. Which
is he? Point him out. I must see him!" he exclaimed; but at that moment
the Duke of Berwick's four-in-hand came between, and when it had left
the space clear, the carriage had swept out of the park.

"He is gone," murmured Sibyl sadly. "I wish you had seen him."

"I wish I had, for as sure as there is a God in heaven, if he ever does
you any wrong, I shall kill him."

She looked at him in horror. He repeated his words. They cut the air
like a dagger. The people round began to gape. A lady standing close to
her tittered.

"Come away, Jim; come away," she whispered. He followed her doggedly as
she passed through the crowd. He felt glad at what he had said.

When they reached the Achilles Statue, she turned round. There was pity
in her eyes that became laughter on her lips. She shook her head at him.
"You are foolish, Jim, utterly foolish; a bad-tempered boy, that is all.
How can you say such horrible things? You don't know what you are
talking about. You are simply jealous and unkind. Ah! I wish you would
fall in love. Love makes people good, and what you said was wicked."

"I am sixteen," he answered, "and I know what I am about. Mother is no
help to you. She doesn't understand how to look after you. I wish now
that I was not going to Australia at all. I have a great mind to chuck
the whole thing up. I would, if my articles hadn't been signed."

"Oh, don't be so serious, Jim. You are like one of the heroes of those
silly melodramas Mother used to be so fond of acting in. I am not going
to quarrel with you. I have seen him, and oh! to see him is perfect
happiness. We won't quarrel. I know you would never harm any one I love,
would you?"

"Not as long as you love him, I suppose," was the sullen answer.

"I shall love him for ever!" she cried.

"And he?"

"For ever, too!"

"He had better."

She shrank from him. Then she laughed and put her hand on his arm. He
was merely a boy.

At the Marble Arch they hailed an omnibus, which left them close to
their shabby home in the Euston Road. It was after five o'clock, and
Sibyl had to lie down for a couple of hours before acting. Jim insisted
that she should do so. He said that he would sooner part with her when
their mother was not present. She would be sure to make a scene, and he
detested scenes of every kind.

In Sybil's own room they parted. There was jealousy in the lad's heart,
and a fierce murderous hatred of the stranger who, as it seemed to him,
had come between them. Yet, when her arms were flung round his neck, and
her fingers strayed through his hair, he softened and kissed her with
real affection. There were tears in his eyes as he went downstairs.

His mother was waiting for him below. She grumbled at his unpunctuality,
as he entered. He made no answer, but sat down to his meagre meal. The
flies buzzed round the table and crawled over the stained cloth. Through
the rumble of omnibuses, and the clatter of street-cabs, he could hear
the droning voice devouring each minute that was left to him.

After some time, he thrust away his plate and put his head in his hands.
He felt that he had a right to know. It should have been told to him
before, if it was as he suspected. Leaden with fear, his mother watched
him. Words dropped mechanically from her lips. A tattered lace
handkerchief twitched in her fingers. When the clock struck six, he got
up and went to the door. Then he turned back and looked at her. Their
eyes met. In hers he saw a wild appeal for mercy. It enraged him.

"Mother, I have something to ask you," he said. Her eyes wandered
vaguely about the room. She made no answer. "Tell me the truth. I have a
right to know. Were you married to my father?"

She heaved a deep sigh. It was a sigh of relief. The terrible moment,
the moment that night and day, for weeks and months, she had dreaded,
had come at last, and yet she felt no terror. Indeed, in some measure it
was a disappointment to her. The vulgar directness of the question
called for a direct answer. The situation had not been gradually led up
to. It was crude. It reminded her of a bad rehearsal.

"No," she answered, wondering at the harsh simplicity of life.

"My father was a scoundrel then!" cried the lad, clenching his fists.

She shook her head. "I knew he was not free. We loved each other very
much. If he had lived, he would have made provision for us. Don't speak
against him, my son. He was your father, and a gentleman. Indeed, he was
highly connected."

An oath broke from his lips. "I don't care for myself," he exclaimed,
"but don't let Sibyl. . . . It is a gentleman, isn't it, who is in love
with her, or says he is? Highly connected, too, I suppose."

For a moment a hideous sense of humiliation came over the woman. Her


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