'Do you know why I am sure of it? It is this. I do not care any more.

It is all the same to me, what they do. I do not care whether they come

or not, or whether they applaud, or hiss, or stamp on the floor. Why

should I care? I have had it all so often. I have seen the people

standing on the seats all over the theatre and yelling, and often in

foreign countries they have taken the horses from my carriage and

dragged it themselves. I have had everything. Why should I care for it?

And I do not want money. I have too much already.' 'You certainly have enough, mother.' 'It is your fault that I have too much,' she said, in sudden anger.

'You have no heart; you are a cruel, ungrateful boy! Is there anything

I have not done to make you happy, ever since you were a baby? Look at

your position! You are a celebrated writer, a critic! Other writers are

green with jealousy and fear of you! And why? Because I made up my mind

that you should be a great man, and sent you to school and the

university instead of keeping you to myself, at home, always pressed

against my heart! Is not that the greatest sacrifice that a mother can

make, to send her child to college, to be left alone herself, always

wondering whether he is catching cold and is getting enough to eat, and

is not being led away by wicked little boys? Ah, you do not know! You

can never be a mother!' This was unanswerable, but Lushington really looked sorry for her, as

if it were his fault.

'And what have you given me in return for it all? How have you repaid

me for the days of anxiety and nights of fever all the time when you

were at those terrible studies? I ask you that! How have you rewarded

me? You will not take money from me. I go on making more and more, and

you will not spend it. Oh, it is not to be believed! I shall die of

grief!' Madame Bonanni put one fat hand out from under the furs, and pressed a

podgy finger to each eyelid in succession by way of stopping the very

genuine tears that threatened her rouged cheeks with watery

destruction.

'Mother, please don't!' cried Lushington, in helpless distress. 'You

know that I can't take money from you!' 'Oh, I know, I know! That is the worst of it--I know! It is not because

you are proud of earning your own living, it's because you're ashamed

of me!' Lushington rose again, and began to walk up and down, bending his head

and glancing at her now and then.




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