Ernest Whiteoak was at this time seventy years old. He had reached the age when after a hearty dinner a man likes repose of body and spirit. Such scenes as the one his mother had just staged inclined to upset his digestion, and it was with as petulant a look as ever shadowed his gentle face that he steered her at last to her padded chair by her own fire and ensconced her there. He stood looking down at her with a singular mixture of disgust and adoration. She was a deplorable old vixen, but he loved her more than any one else in the world.
"Comfortable, Mamma?" he asked.
"Yes. Bring me a peppermint. A Scotch mint—not a humbug."
He selected one from a little tin box on the dresser and brought it to her in his long pale fingers that seemed almost unnaturally smooth.
"Put it in my mouth, boy." She opened it, pushing forward her lips till she looked like a hungry old bird.
He popped in the peppermint, withdrawing his fingers quickly as though he were afraid she would bite him.
She sucked the sweet noisily, staring into the dancing firelight from under shaggy red brows. On the high back of her chair her brilliantly colored parrot, Boney, perched, vindictively pecking at the ribbons on her cap. She had brought a parrot with her from India, named Boney in derision of Bonaparte. She had had several since the first one, but the time was long past when she was able to differentiate between them. They were all
