“My boy—my own Paul,” she half-cooed, kissing his forehead. “This is, indeed, an unexpected pleasure. I did not even know that you were in London.”
For a moment the young man seemed about to return his mother’s caress; but he did not do so.
She crossed to the window, and placing a second chair, as she seated herself, desired Paul to take it.
There was a positive pleasure in observing the movements of this perfectly graceful woman. She seemed the embodiment of a soft, sweet strain of music; every gesture, every fold of her draperies was at once so natural, yet so absolutely harmonious, that it was impossible to suggest an alteration for the better.
“I supposed you to be settled for a time in Paris,” Mrs. Desfrayne said, as her son did not appear inclined to take the lead in the impending dialogue, but accepted his chair in almost moody silence.
“I should have written to you, mother; but I thought I should most probably arrive as soon, or perhaps even precede my letter,” replied Captain Desfrayne.
“You look anxious and a little worried. Has unpleasant business brought you back? You have not obtained the appointment to the French embassy for which you were looking?”
“No. I am anxious, undoubtedly; but I suppose I ought not to say I am worried, though I find myself placed in a most remarkable, and—what shall I say?—delicate position. Yesterday I received a letter, and I came at once to consult you, with the hope that you might be able to give me some good advice. I fear I have called at rather an unreasonable hour?”
A tenderly reproachful glance seemed to assure him that no hour could be unreasonable that brought his ever-welcome presence.
“I will advise you to the best of my ability, my dear,” Mrs. Desfrayne smilingly said. “What has happened?”