ward glance was like the dropping of a veil. She had seen many things, that serious and curiously stern young face, the puzzled and candid eyes. She was full of swift and impatient comments. "What, if he is like me outside,—and like his father—inside? Serious? Too beastly serious." She smoothed out her gloves and her temper. Had she expected him to rush at her and to cry—"Mother"? Of course not! She made herself look smooth. She was the well-dressed, presentable woman of forty-nine, the sort of woman he might see any day in Regent Street, plump and pleasant, a woman who went to church on occasion, but who was nicely up to date. She had a house in South Audley Street. She went to the Riviera. She played Bridge. She had two or three nice girls who came and nested in her chairs, and called her Aunt Dora.
"I happened to be in Cambridge."
He crossed the room, and stood resting his hands on the back of the other arm-chair. There was the same attentive, self-questioning stare in his eyes.
"Yes,—I'm up at Trinity."
"So I had heard."
She raised her eyes and gave him a tentative and slightly droll smile.
"I have been staying at the Pelican."
"Oh?"
"Your father looks very well. We had one or two talks."
His silence held her poised. His lips moved,—and grew still. Then, he asked her a question, one of those terribly direct questions that are so disconcerting to the sophisticated.
"Did he ask you to come and see me?"
She met the question full faced, but he had noticed a momentary flicker of hesitation.
"I think he understood."
She watched his face. He seemed to be making some calculation.
"I had a letter from him this morning."
"So you know."
"No."
The faint creases about—her eyes and mouth seemed to deepen.
