“Sure as you’re a foot high; and when the now valuable Miss Maynard accosted Hebe at the Fountain House, the lovely heaver begged her to forget it. There’s a story attached to her. Brute told me—”
“Yes,” interrupted Mrs. Nixon impatiently. “Mrs. Bruce told me what she had done for her. I dare say she has found her right place. There is no need of making a fuss over her.”
Robert shook his finger at the speaker. “Careful, careful, mother. Supposing you should waken to-morrow morning and find that the heaver’s uncle in India had passed to his fathers, and that Miss Vincent was likely to require the advice of an experienced chaperon.”
Mrs. Nixon waved this nonsense aside with a gesture, and returned to the subject in hand.
“I think the thing for me to do is to find Miss Maynard now, tell her that Mr. Derwent has informed me of her good fortune, and congratulate her.”
Robert rubbed his hands together with a malevolent and gleeful laugh. “Can’t you hide me behind the screen and send for her?” he begged.
Mrs. Nixon had risen and now drew herself up.
“What, pray, do you think would be so amusing about it? Do you think your mother would be less than dignified?”
“No, no, honey,” rejoined her irreverent son, forcibly taking her reluctant hands. “I was only thinking of witnessing a friendly interview between an icicle and a stalactite.” He chuckled again and clapped the maternal hands together, totally against the maternal will.