"No, he doesn't—he never writes in purple knickerbockers."
"Is this meant to be witty?" she asked with a freezing glare.
"What? No, I shouldn't think so."
"I found your wife," she said in a low hissing voice, as they passed through the hall where there was a large looking-glass—Romer's attention wandered—"within an inch of that young man's face, putting ear-rings in his ears!"
"Well, she couldn't put them in a mile off," said Romer absently.
He was now frankly turning his back on his mother, and staring at his face in the glass.
"Hang it all! I don't look so bad, do I?"
"You look a gentleman," she answered coldly; "any son of mine must look a gentleman. Of course, you look ridiculous—and, as far as that goes, you are ridiculous; but that doesn't matter quite so much as long as you look a gentleman."
"Oh, rot!"
Romer was trying to move a patch from one corner of his eye to the other.