He followed Mrs. Crosbie in silence; then, as she closed the door, he walked to the window and leaned against the ledge.
“Well, mother?” he said, in a tone of impatience.
Mrs. Crosbie stirred the fire, then warmed her white hands. She looked at her son, and the sight of his grave, handsome face strengthened her purpose. It was such a faint likeness to the merry, bright face of a few months back.
“Stuart,” she began, quietly, “I wish to speak to you seriously. Do you intend to lead this kind of life always?”
“What kind of life, mother?”
“This dull, monotonous, farmerlike existence. Have you no aim—no ambition?”
“None,” Stuart answered, laconically.
His mother moved impatiently in her seat.
“Pray, be sensible, Stuart,” she said, sharply; “you were never like this before. It galls me, it wounds me to see you wasting your days down here, pottering about on the farms, and for what?”
“Some one must look after things, mother; my father cannot, and you have often complained to me of the bad management, so I have determined to relieve you of further anxiety.”