‘We had quite given you up,’ Gilbert was saying. ‘The fire is in the library,’ he added, as Mr. Kendal was opening the drawing-room door, and closing it in haste at the sight of a pale, uninviting patch of moonlight, and the rush of a blast of cold wind.
‘And how is grandmamma? and the children? My Sophy, you don’t look well, and where’s Lucy?’
Ere she could receive an answer, down jumped, two steps at a time, a half-dressed figure, all white stout legs and arms which were speedily hugging mamma.
‘There’s my man!’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘a good boy, I know.’
‘No!’ cried the bold voice.
‘No?’ (incredulously) what have you been doing?’
‘I broke the conservatory with the marble dog, and—’ he looked at Gilbert.
‘There’s my brave boy,’ said Mr. Kendal, who had suffered so much from his elder son’s equivocation as to be ready to overlook anything for the sake of truth. ‘Here, Uncle Maurice, shake hands with your godson, who always tells truth.’
The urchin folded his arms on his bosom, and looked like a young Bonaparte.
‘Where’s your hand? said his uncle. ‘Wont you give it to me?’