The mother's eye read his worn face in a moment, and soon she had it all out of him. It cost her a struggle not to vent her maternal spleen on Grace; but she knew that would only make her son more unhappy. She advised him minutely what to say to the young lady about Mr. Coventry: and, as to the other matters she said, “You have found Mr. Bolt not so bad to beat as he tells you: for he is beaten, and there's an end of him. Now let ME try.”
“Why, what on earth can you do in a case of this kind?”
“Have I ever failed when you have accepted my assistance?”
“No: that's true. Well, I shall be glad of your assistance now, heaven knows; only I can't imagine—”
“Never mind: will you take Grace Carden if I throw her into your arms?”
“Oh, mother, can you ask me?”
Mrs. Little rang the bell, and ordered a fly. Henry offered to accompany her. She declined. “Go to bed early,” said she, “and trust to your mother. We are harder to beat sometimes than a good many Mr. Bolts.”
She drove to Dr. Amboyne's house, and sent in her name. She was ushered into the doctor's study, and found him shivering over an enormous fire. “Influenza.”
“Oh dear,” said she, “I'm afraid you are very ill.”
“Never mind that. Sit down. You will not make me any worse, you may be sure of that.” And he smiled affectionately on her.