money, so I have thrown away my days. Perhaps I have squandered all my days . . . for nothing. Oh, I oughtn't to feel like this! What does it mean when I do? What am I regretting? What is there left for me? At Nice, I thought for a moment of joining in that feminine revolt against approaching age; and I did join in it; and I succeeded. But what does it all mean and what is the use of it? It only means shining a little longer, for nothing; but it does not mean living . . . But to long for it doesn't mean anything either, for there is nothing for me now but to grow old, in my home; and, even if I am not exactly among my people, my brothers and sisters, at any rate I have my mother . . . and, perhaps for quite a long time still, my son too . . ."
"Mummy . . . what are you thinking about so deeply?"
But she smiled, said nothing, looked earnestly at him:
"He's much fonder of his father," she thought. "I know it, but it can't be helped. I must put up with it and accept what he gives me."
"Come, Mummy, what are you thinking about?"
"Lots of things, my boy . . . and perhaps nothing . . . Mamma feels so lonely . . . with no one about her . . . except you . . ."
He started, struck by what she had said: it was almost the same words that his father had used that afternoon.
