“Will you come in and see her?”
“Now? I shall be very glad to, if--”
“She’s ready; she’s expecting you,” he interposed.
He offered no further explanation, and I followed him in silence. He led
me down the long corridor, and pushed open the door of a sitting-room.
“Mother,” he said, closing the door after we had entered, “here’s the
gentleman who says he used to know you.”
Mrs. Amyot, who sat in an easy-chair stirring a cup of bouillon, looked
up with a start. She had evidently not seen me in the audience, and her
son’s description had failed to convey my identity. I saw a frightened
look in her eyes; then, like a frost flower on a window-pane, the dimple
expanded on her wrinkled cheek, and she held out her hand.
“I’m so glad,” she said, “so glad!”
She turned to her son, who stood watching us. “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.