She took the money gratefully. “He has promised to repay all he has had from you, so don't worry about not getting it back.”
“Ah! dear,” and he laughed, “that does not worry me in the least. I don't bother about what he will or will not do.”
She turned to the door: “I shall call you then when he is ready.” And she left him to his solitude.
Philip wondered when he was once more alone what his mother's action would have been had she known what that money was to do for him. On the whole he concluded it was just as well she did not know. He became reflective. With practise it might be possible for him to acquire a habit which would enable him to derive a melancholy pleasure from being miserable. He laughed aloud.
“I never knew that farce and tragedy touched hands,” he thought.
It was quite late when his mother called from the foot of the stairs: “Anson is ready, Philip. If you will come, he will be so pleased to have you go down to the station with him.”
He went down and found her waiting for him in the hall. “You will be kind,” she whispered anxiously. “You won't say anything hard, when you are alone with him? Poor boy! he feels it so keenly. You will be considerate of him?”
“Yes, dear. Don't distress yourself. I shall be as kind as I know how.”
They went into the sitting-room where Anson was bidding good-by to his sisters. Philip had no wish to witness his mother's farewells. He picked up a valise his brother was to carry with him, saying: “I shall start on ahead, Anson.”
“All right. I shall be along presently,” his brother answered.