“What’s your pleasure?” she asked, in a cold and somewhat stern voice.
“Ma’am,” answered Kenelm, uncovering, “I have called to see Mr. Bowles, and I sincerely hope he is well enough to let me do so.”
“No, sir, he is not well enough for that; he is lying down in his own room, and must be kept quiet.”
“May I then ask you the favour to let me in? I would say a few words to you, who are his mother if I mistake not.” Mrs. Bowles paused a moment as if in doubt; but she was at no loss to detect in Kenelm’s manner something superior to the fashion of his dress, and supposing the visit might refer to her son’s professional business, she opened the door wider, drew aside to let him pass first, and when he stood midway in the parlour, requested him to take a seat, and, to set him the example, seated herself.
“Ma’am,” said Kenelm, “do not regret to have admitted me, and do not think hardly of me when I inform you that I am the unfortunate cause of your son’s accident.”
Mrs. Bowles rose with a start. “You’re the man who beat my boy?”
“No, ma’am, do not say I beat him. He is not beaten. He is so brave and so strong that he would easily have beaten me if I had not, by good luck, knocked him down before he had time to do so. Pray, ma’am, retain your seat and listen to me patiently for a few moments.”
Mrs. Bowles, with an indignant heave of her Juno-like bosom, and with a superbly haughty expression of countenance which suited well with its aquiline formation, tacitly obeyed.
“You will allow, ma’am,” recommenced Kenelm, “that this is not the first time by many that Mr. Bowles has come to blows with another man. Am I not right in that assumption?”
“My son is of hasty temper,” replied Mrs. Bowles, reluctantly, “and people should not aggravate him.”