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‘Can one be more, Clive?’

‘Yes. Mothers take advantage. You have never taken advantage.’

‘Till just now, you mean?’

He sat for a moment longer, holding her hands, then rose, still holding them and looking at her with his gentleness that could be almost stern. ‘Perhaps. But it was my fault, too. We put it behind us, don’t we? It’s forgotten and wiped out. Or, if we must remember—only that because of it we understand each other better. You will help my weakness—that’s what I mean, Mummy; because you are my friend as well as my mother.’

‘You are not weak, Clive. You are the strongest person I know.’ She felt it indeed as she sat looking up at the archangel face, intent with its demand that she should be worthy of his faith in her.

‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m weak because I can’t bear things. I lose my footing. It’s as if the tide bore me out, or as if my breath gave way.—Perhaps it was the war.—If I could only be tough;—grow another skin;—not feel so much more than there’s any good in feeling———’ He broke off. ‘All a sort of weakness, you see.—Mummy, I’ll go now. Hester will be wondering what has become of me.