my mother's eyes all tradespeople were low.

As to her indifference towards me,--that is easily explained. I was
an incorrigible little bohemian by nature. She despaired of ever
changing me. During several years this indifference distressed me,
though it in no way diminished my affection for her. At last,
however, I got accustomed to it and accepted it as inevitable. But
the remarkable thing was that Frank's affection for his mother was of
the most languid kind. He was an open-hearted boy, and never took
advantage of my mother's favouritism. Thus I was left entirely to my
own resources. My little love-idyl with Winifred was for a long time
unknown to my mother, and no amount of ocular demonstration could
have made it known (in such a dream was he) to my father.

On one occasion, however, my mother, having been struck by her beauty
at church, told Wynne to bring her to the house, little thinking what
she was doing. Accordingly, Winifred came one evening and charmed my
mother, charmed the entire household, by her grace of manner. My
mother, upon whom what she called 'style' made a far greater
impression than anything else, pronounced her to be a perfect little
lady, and I heard her remark that she wondered how the child of such
a scapegrace as Wynne could have been so reared.

Unfortunately I was not old enough to disguise the transports of
delight that set my heart beating and my crippled limbs trembling as
I saw Winifred gliding like a fairy about the house and gardens, and
petted even by my proud and awful mother. My mother did not fail to
notice this, and before long she had got from Frank the history of
our little loves, and even of the 'cripple water' from St. Winifred's
Well. I partly heard what Frank was telling her, and I was the only