pg5247 [265]
"Oh, well!" he said. "I'm glad it's no worse. I thought from your telegram there was something seriously wrong. And then when you told me not to mention it—when I came in…!"
She saw that he failed to realize the situation, and she lifted her head challengingly.
"You neglect your mother, young man," she said.
"Oh, come now, auntie!" he answered quite gently. "You mustn't talk like that. I write to her every week. I've never missed a week. I come down as often as——"
"You miss the Sunday sometimes," Sophia interrupted him.
"Perhaps," he said doubtfully. "But what——"
"Don't you understand that she simply lives for your letters? And if one doesn't come, she's very upset indeed—can't eat! And it brings on her sciatica, and I don't know what!"
He was taken aback by her boldness, her directness.
"But how silly of her! A fellow can't always——"
"It may be silly. But there it is. You can't alter her. And, after all, what would it cost you to be more attentive, even to write to her twice a week? You aren't going to tell me you're so busy as all that! I know a great deal more about young men than your mother does." She smiled like an aunt.
He answered her smile sheepishly.
"If you'll only put yourself in your mother's place…!"
"I expect you're quite right," he said at length. "And I'm much obliged to you for telling me. How was I to know?" He threw the end of the cigar, with a large sweeping gesture, into the fire.
"Well, anyhow, you know now!" she said curtly; and she thought: "You OUGHT to have known. It was your business to know." But she was pleased with the way in which he had accepted her criticism, and the gesture with which he threw away the cigar-end struck her as very distinguished.
"That's all right!" he said dreamily, as if to say: "That's done with."
And he rose.
Sophia, however, did not stir.
"Your mother's health is not what it ought to be," she went on, and gave him a full account of her conversation with the doctor.
"Really!" Cyril murmured, leaning on the mantel-piece with his elbow and looking down at her. "Stirling said that, did he? I should have thought she would have been better where she is, in the Square."
"Why better in the Square?"
"Oh, I don't know!"
"Neither do I!"
"She's always been here."
"Yes." said Sophia, "she's been here a great deal too long."
"What do YOU suggest?" Cyril asked, with impatience in his voice against this new anxiety that was being thrust upon him.
"Well," said Sophia, "what should you say to her coming to London and living with you?"
Cyril started back. Sophia could see that he was genuinely shocked. "I don't think that would do at all," he said.
"Why?"
"Oh! I don't think it would. London wouldn't suit her. She's not that sort of woman. I really thought she was quite all right down here. She wouldn't like London." He shook his head, looking up at the gas; his eyes had a dangerous glare.
"But supposing she said she did?"
"Look here," Cyril began in a new and brighter tone. "Why don't you and she keep house together somewhere? That would be the very—"
He turned his head sharply. There was a noise on the staircase, and the staircase door opened with its eternal creak.
"Yes," said Sophia. "The Champs Elysees begins at the Place de la
Concorde, and ends——. Is that you, Constance?"
The figure of Constance filled the doorway. Her face was troubled. She had heard Cyril in the street, and had come down to see why he remained so long in the parlour. She was astounded to find Sophia with him. There they were, as intimate as cronies, chattering about Paris! Undoubtedly she was jealous! Never did Cyril talk like that to her!
"I thought you were in bed and asleep, Sophia," she said weakly. "It's nearly one o'clock."
"No," said Sophia. "I didn't seem to feel like going to bed; and then
Cyril happened to come in."
But neither she nor Cyril could look innocent. And