Harry did not protest that he could not contemplate his life without Mrs. Freere, though he had protested that on more than one of those previous occasions. Mrs. Freere leant against the mantelpiece, smiling down at him in the armchair.
"Seen somebody?" she asked.
Harry blushed hotly. "You're an awfully good sort, Lily," he said.
She laughed a little, then sighed a little. Well, it had been very agreeable to have this handsome boy at her beck and call, gracefully adoring, flattering her vanity, amusing her leisure, giving her the luxury of reflecting that she was behaving well in the face of considerable temptation—she really felt entitled to plume herself on this exploit. But such things could not last—Mrs. Freere knew that. The balance was too delicate; a topple over on one side or the other was bound to come; she had always meant that the toppling over, when it came, should be on the safe side—on to the level ground, not over the precipice. A bump is a bump, there's no denying it, but it's better than a broken neck. Mrs. Freere took her bump smiling, though it certainly hurt a little.
"Is she very pretty?"
He jumped up from the armchair. He was highly serious about the matter, and that, perhaps, may be counted a grace in him.
"I suppose I shall do it—if I can. But I'm hanged if I can talk to you about it!"
"That's rather nice of you. Thank you, Harry."
He bowed his comely head, with its waving hair, over her hand and kissed it.
"Good-bye, Harry," she said.