"
"Plain?"
"Not at all--rather pretty. But she talks philosophy and stuff. Not my
sort."
"And the younger one doesn't talk philosophy?"
"Not she. She's a deal too clever. But she paints--like a bird. I've seen
some of her things."
"Oh!--so _you_'ve been to call?"
Lady Tatham lifted her beautiful eyes upon her son. Harry Tatham fidgeted
with his cup and spoon.
"No. I was shy, because you hadn't been. But--"
"Harry," interrupted his mother, her look all vivacity, "did she paint
those two water-colours in your sitting-room?"
The boyish, bluntly cut face beside her broke into a charming laugh.
"I bought 'em out of the Edinburgh exhibition. Wasn't it 'cute of me? She
told me she had sent them there. So I just wrote to the secretary and
bought them."
There was silence a moment. Lady Tatham continued to look at her son. The
eyebrows on her brow, as they slowly arched themselves, expressed the
half-amused, half-startled inquiry she did not put into words. He flushed
scarlet, still smiling, and suddenly he laid his hand on hers.
"I say, mummie, don't tease me, and don't talk to me about it. There may
be nothing in it--nothing at all."
His mother's face deepened into gravity.
"You take my breath away. Remember--there's only me, Harry, to look after
you."
"I know. But you're not like other mothers," said the youth impatiently.
"You want me to be happy and please myself. At least if you'd wanted the
usual thing, you should have brought me up differently!" He smiled upon
her again, patting her hand.
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