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How much most mothers meant to their sons, and how little she had ever
meant to him! He had always taken his father's view of her, that it was
necessary for her to be there, that she naturally did her best, but that
she did not expect you to think about her.
"You ought to be in bed," he said, wishing that she would release him.
For the first time in her life she spoke to him spontaneously, losing
entirely the sense that she had always had, that both he and his father
would go away and leave her if she were tiresome.
To-night he would _not_ go away--not until she had struck her bargain
with him.
"What have you been up to all these weeks, Falk?" she asked.
"Up to?" he repeated. Her challenge was unexpected.
"Yes; of course I know you're up to something, and you _know_ that I
know. You must tell me. I'm your mother and I ought to be told."
He knew at once as soon as she spoke that she was the very last person in
the world to whom he wished to tell anything. He was tired, dead tired,
and wanted to go to bed, but he was arrested by the urgency in her voice.


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