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His mother! He had something on his mind to ask of her, something

that he had brooded on for many months of silence. A chance

phrase that he had heard at the theatre, a whispered sneer that

had reached his ears one night as he waited at the stage-door,

had set loose a train of horrible thoughts. He remembered it as

if it had been the lash of a hunting-crop across his face. His

brows knit together into a wedge-like furrow, and with a twitch

of pain he bit his underlip.

"You are not listening to a word I am saying, Jim," cried Sibyl,

"and I am making the most delightful plans for your future. Do

say something."

"What do you want me to say?"

"Oh! that you will be a good boy and not forget us," she

answered, smiling at him.

He shrugged his shoulders. "You are more likely to forget me than

I am to forget you, Sibyl."

She flushed. "What do you mean, Jim?" she asked.

"You have a new friend, I hear. Who is he? Why have you not told

me about him? He means you no good."