"You must have told Lancelot
all about me--you've known me so long!"
"I haven't had time to talk to your son--since I knew he was your son," I
explained.
Her brow cleared. "Then you haven't had time to say anything very
dreadful?" she said with a laugh.
"It is he who has been saying dreadful things," I returned, trying to fall
in with her tone.
I saw my mistake. "What things?" she faltered.
"Making me feel how old I am by telling me about his children."
"My grandchildren!" she exclaimed with a blush.
"Well, if you choose to put it so."
She laughed again, vaguely, and was silent. I hesitated a moment and then
put out my hand.
"I see you are tired. I shouldn't have ventured to come in at this hour if
your son--"
The son stepped between us. "Yes, I asked him to come," he said to his
mother, in his clear self-assertive voice. "_I_ haven't told him anything
yet; but you've got to--now. That's what I brought him for."
His mother straightened herself, but I saw her eye waver.
"Lancelot--" she began.
"Mr. Amyot," I said, turning to the young man, "if your mother will let me
come back to-morrow, I shall be very glad--"
He struck his hand hard against the table on which he was leaning.
"No, sir! It won't take long, but it's got to be said now."
He moved nearer to his mother, and I saw his lip twitch under his beard.
After all, he was younger and less sure of himself than I had fancied.
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