"I know, from Grandfather's portrait; who painted that?"
"One of June's 'lame ducks.' But it's quite good."
Jon slipped his hand through his Mother's arm. "Tell me about the family quarrel, Mum."
He felt her arm quivering. "No, dear; that's for your father some day, if he thinks fit."
"Then it WAS serious," said Jon, with a catch in his breath.
"Yes." And there was a silence, during which neither knew whether the arm or the hand within it were quivering most.
"Some people," said Irene softly, "think the moon on her back is evil; to me she's always lovely. Look at those cypress shadows! Jon, Father says we may go to Italy, you and I, for two months. Would you like?"
Jon took his hand from under her arm; his sensation was so sharp and so confused. Italy with his Mother! A fortnight ago it would have been perfection; now it filled him with dismay; he felt that the sudden suggestion had to do with Fleur. He stammered out:
"Oh! yes; only—I don't know. Ought I—now I've just begun? I'd like to think it over."
Her voice answered, cool and gentle: