“Do you remember a fellow who stayed here once with me from Oxford,” he asked, “called Frank Bennett?”
Mrs. Collingwood unbent a little more. She had approved of the young man in question.
“Yes, I remember him perfectly,” she said. “He had a beautiful voice, and sang Nazareth after dinner. He sang with great feeling, I remember, and we talked about the aims and career of an oratorio singer.”
Jack could not help smiling. Frank had a unique talent, he had always considered, of adaptability. It was exactly like him to sing Nazareth. He sang other things as well, if not better.
“Yes,” he said, “I see you remember him. He was one of my closest friends. He is dead.”
“Oh, Jack,” she said, “I am so sorry! I liked him so much for himself. Does the advice you want concern him in any way?”
“Yes, very closely.”
Jack paused. His mother had been sympathetic, the thing had touched her, and it was with less apprehension that he went on.
“It concerns him very closely,” he said. “He had a child. No, he was not married——”
He looked steadily at his mother as he said this, and saw the sympathy and warmth die out of her face.