“Well, she seems a lady,” I thought, as I walked home; “a little anæmic flower of gentility.” But sentiment was not to the point.
That evening, “over the walnuts and the wine,” I tackled Master Jack, my second son. He was a promising youth; was reading for the Bar, and, for all I knew, might have contributed to the “Gownsman.”
“Jack,” I said, when we were alone, “I never knew till to-day that you considered yourself a poet.”
He looked at me coolly and inquiringly, but said nothing.
“Do you consider yourself a marrying man, too?” I asked.
He shook his head, with a little amazed smile.
“Then what the devil do you mean by addressing a copy of love verses to Miss Phillida Gray?”
He was on his feet in a moment, as pale as death.
“If you were not my father”—he began.
“But I am, my boy,” I answered, “and an indulgent one, I think you’ll grant.”