I Reached my own house in time to snatch two or three hours of repose¹, before I paid my customary morning visit to my mother in her own room. I observed, in her reception of me on this occasion, certain peculiarities² of look and manner which were far from being familiar in my experience of her.

When our eyes first met, she regarded me with a wistful, questioning look, as if she were troubled by some doubt which she shrunk from expressing in words. And when I inquired after her health, as usual, she surprised me by answering as impatiently as if she resented my having mentioned the subject. For a moment, I was inclined to think these changes signified that she had discovered my absence from home during the night, and that she had some suspicion of the true cause of it. But she never alluded³, even in the most distant manner, to Mrs. Van Brandt; and not a word dropped from her lips which implied, directly or indirectly⁴, that I had pained or disappointed her. I could only conclude that she had something important to say in relation to herself or to me — and that for reasons of her own she unwillingly⁵ abstained⁶ from giving expression to it at that time.

Reverting⁷ to our ordinary topics of conversation, we touched on the subject (always interesting to my mother) of my visit to Shetland. Speaking of this, we naturally spoke⁸ also of Miss Dunross. Here, again, when I least expected it, there was another surprise in store for me.

“You were talking the other day,” said my mother, “of the green flag which poor Dermody’s daughter worked for you, when you were both children. Have you really kept it all this time?”

“Yes.”

“Where have you left it? In Scotland?”

“I have brought it with me to London.”

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