“Of whom are you speaking, Maurice? It is not possible that you call your mother Alice!”
“Yes, sometimes; and so do Aunt Mary and Miss Ferrars.”
“Well, you are not to do it any more, remember. Now tell me your name?” said his father, catechising in his turn.
“Maurice Reg—nald Fairfax.”
So he had not been wholly forgotten.
“And how old are you?”
“Past two, long time. How old are you?”
“Past twenty this long time. Are you a good boy, do you think?”
“Alice knows,” he replied, nodding with easy confidence towards his mother.
“Yes, Alice knows,” said she, rising quickly and stretching out her hand; “Alice knows that it’s your bedtime, so say ‘Good-night’ and come along.”