Paul was on the point of saying something, which he did not say.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘Mammy, will you do something for me? I am expecting somebody. Go and cash this for me, and let the agent have the money in return for my drafts. You don’t mind?’
She did not indeed. If she went about his business she would seem to be with him still. While he was signing his name, the mother looked round the room. There were charming carpets and curtains, and nothing to mark the profession of the occupant except an X ruler in old walnut, and some casts from well-known friezes hung here and there. As she thought of her recent agony and looked at the elaborate bouquets and the refreshments laid by the sofa, it occurred to her that these were unusual preparations for a suicide. She smiled without any resentment. The naughty wretch! She only pointed with her parasol at the bonbons in the box and said:
‘Those are to make a hole in your—your—what do you call it?’
He began to laugh too.
‘Oh, there’s a great change since yesterday.
The business, you know, the big thing I talked to you about, is really coming off this time, I think.’
‘Really? So is mine.’
‘Eh? Ah yes, Sammy’s marriage.’
Their pretty cunning eyes, both of the same hard grey, but, the mother’s a little faded, exchanged one scrutinising glance.