The cat left Michael and went and sat beside her on the bed.
“Why do you call it Peter?” he asked. The name savored rather of the deliberate novelist.
“After my boy.”
“Your boy?” he echoed.
“Oh, he’s a fine boy, and a good boy.” The mention of her son stiffened the woman into a fleeting dignity.
“I suppose he’s about twelve?” Michael asked. Her age had puzzled him.
“Well, thirteen really. Of course, you see, I’m a little older than what I look.” As she looked about forty-five, Michael thought that the converse was more probable.
“He’s not living with you?”
“Oh, no, certainly not. Why, I wouldn’t have him here for anything—not ever. Oh, no, he’s at school with the Jesuits. He’s to go in the Civil Service. I lived with his father for many years—in fact, from the time I was sixteen. His father was a Frenchman. A silk-merchant he was. He’s been dead about six years now.”
“I suppose he left money to provide for the boy.”