“Nanny,” said Michael, when he had received Nurse’s information, “why did my father die?”
“Die? Die? What questions. Tut-tut! Whatever next?” And Nurse blew very violently to show how deeply she disapproved of Michael’s inquisitiveness.
That evening, just when Michael was going to bed, there came a knock at the door, and a tall fair man was shown into the drawing-room.
“How d’ye do, Mrs. Fane? I’ve come to ask you if you’ll go to the theatre to-night. Saxby is coming on later.”
“Oh, thank you very much, Mr. Prescott, but I really think I must stay in. You see,” she said smilingly, “it’s Michael’s last night of me for a long time.”
Michael stood gazing at Mr. Prescott, hating him with all his might and sighing relief at his mother’s refusal to go out.
“Oh, Michael won’t mind; will you, Michael?”
Nurse came in saying ‘Bed-time! Tut-tut-tut! Bed-time!’ and Michael’s heart sank.
“There you are,” said Mr. Prescott. “Here’s Nurse to say it’s bed-time. Now do come, Mrs. Fane.”
“Oh, I really think I ought to stay.”