“How do you like her?”
“Not at all, as far as I can judge.”
A smile, almost of gratification, rippled over the fair, smooth face of his mother at this admission. She was on the point of exclaiming: “I am glad of it!” but checked herself, and remarked instead:
“How is it that I find you here alone?”
These words recalled Captain Desfrayne to his exact position. He felt as if he could have given worlds to speak with the old freedom to the woman who loved him so fondly—could he but explain to her what weighed upon his life like a constant nightmare. But it was impossible. He was a coward, and dared not face her inevitable anger.
“I was going away just as I saw you,” he replied, with apparent tranquillity, though his heart for a moment had beat wildly at the thought of making his confession. “The rooms were frightfully hot up-stairs, and this place seemed so cool and inviting, I lingered.”
“You will take me up-stairs, however. Does Lady Quaintree know you are my son?”
Captain Desfrayne had not thought of it.
“I have such an intolerable headache!” he pleaded, anxious to escape; and his temples throbbed to agony. “I really cannot stay.”
“That is very unusual with you, having a headache,” said his mother. “What is the cause of it?”