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'I must be going. Hester will be angry if I keep her waiting. We must not make Hester angry.'

He bent down again and kissed his mother on the forehead. Neither said any more: he turned and walked rapidly across the floor to the door, erect as though stiffened against some parting shot.

'René,' the old woman cried, as he was passing through the door. 'Ne te fâche pas, n'est-ce pas?'

'Tu veux dire avec toi? Quel idée, ma petite mère!'

He blew a kiss, all the ornamental curves of his beard seeming to centre in his lips, the heavy cheek-bones impending upon the jutting mouth. But the eyes were still distracted.

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He sprang into the taxi and crouched with his hands cupped around his face as it shook and rattled preparatory to starting. Then he straightened himself, and sat bolt upright, in the centre of the seat. Nature had given its answer. The judgement of his mother uprooted him, as it were. He had to accept detachment from all that his family had meant for him. Or at least this must be so in the deepest sense. She was an ignorant, worldly old woman, it was true. But he remained shaken.