"Alexander Ossipovitch," he addresses me in his courtly manner, "your mother is very ill. Are you alone with her?"
"We have servants, and two nurses are in attendance," I reply.
"To be sure, to be sure," the shadow of a smile hovers about the corners of his delicately chiseled lips. "I mean of the family."
"Oh, yes! I am alone here with my mother."
"Your mother is rather restless to-day, Alexander Ossipovitch. Could you sit up with her to-night?"
"Certainly, certainly," I quickly assent, wondering at the peculiar request. Mother has been improving, the nurses have assured me. My presence at her bedside may prove irksome to her. Our relations have been strained since the day when, in a fit of anger, she slapped Rose, our new chambermaid, whereupon I resented mother's right to inflict physical punishment on the servants. I can see her now, erect and haughty, facing me across the dinner-table, her eyes ablaze with indignation.
"You forget you are speaking to your mother, Al-ex-an-der"; she pronounces the name in four distinct syllables, as is her habit when angry with me.
"You have no right to strike the girl," I retort, defiantly.
"You forget yourself. My treatment of the menial is no concern of yours."
I cannot suppress the sharp reply that springs to my lips: "The low servant girl is as good as you."