“Naturally,” said Michael, smiling. “He’s your son.”
“Michael, would you be surprised if I told you that I thought of....” Mrs. Ross broke off abruptly. “No, I won’t tell you yet.”
“You’re full of unrevealed mysteries,” said Michael.
“Yes, it’s bedtime for me. Good night.”
Two mornings later Michael had a letter from his mother in London. He wondered why he should be vaguely surprised by her hurried return. Surely Prescott’s death could not have been a reason to bring her home.
173 CHEYNE WALK,
S.W.
My dearest Michael,
I’m so dreadfully upset about poor Dick Prescott. I have so few old friends, so very few, that I can’t afford to lose him. His devotion to your father was perfectly wonderful. He gave up everything to us. He remained in society just enough to be of use to your father, but he was nearly always with us. I think he was fond of me, but he worshiped him. Perhaps I was wrong in trying to encourage the idea of marrying Stella. But I console myself by saying that that had nothing to do with this idea of his to take his own life. You see, when your father died, he found himself alone. I’ve been so selfishly interested in reëntering life. He had no wish to do so. Michael, I can’t write anything more about it. Perhaps, dearest boy, you wouldn’t mind giving up some of your time with the Carthews, and will come back earlier to be with me in London for a little time.
Your loving
Mother.
P.S.—I hope the funeral was properly done.