She was sitting on the low sofa in her dressing-room that evening at dusk, when Charles went in. The firelight played on her face, showing its look of utter weariness, and the traces of tears.
"What's the matter, mother?" he asked, sitting down beside her and taking her hand. "Are you ill?"
"Not ill, Charley," she answered. "Only tired and—and out of sorts."
"What has tired you? Last night, I suppose. But you have been resting all day."
"Not last night particularly. So much fast living does not suit me."
"Fast living!" exclaimed Charles in wondering accents. "Is it the gravies?—or the plum-puddings?"
Mrs. Raynor could not forbear a smile. "I was not thinking of the table, Charles; the gravies and the puddings; but of our fast, artificial existence. We seem to have no rest at all. It is always excitement; nothing but excitement. We went out last night; we go out to dinner to-morrow night; people come here the next night. Every day that we are at home there is something; if it's not luncheon and afternoon-tea, it's dinner; and if it's not dinner, it's supper. I have to think of it all; the entertainments and the dress, and everything; and to go out when you go; and—and I feel it is getting rather too much for me."
"Then lie up, mother, for a few days," advised Charles, affectionately. "Keep by your own fire, and turn things over to Alice and the servants. You will soon be all right again."
Mrs. Raynor did not answer. She held Charles's hand in her own, and was looking steadfastly at the flickering blaze. A silence ensued. Charles lost himself in a train of thought.
"What about this trouble of yours, Charley?"