She looked at him a minute, her motherhood finding itself somehow in opposition to her intense delight in being a “pal,” a chum to him. But she was his mother, too....
“Robin, dear,” she said. “Don’t think me a cross-grained old woman if I lecture you. But I’m so glad you weren’t screwed. It’s a dreadful habit to get into. I hope you’ll tell Mr. Badsley what a pig he made of himself. Of course, it’s dreadfully funny, the thought of his giving his flowers to a bishop, but it’s rather rowdy, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes, it was rowdy,” said Robin.
She was longing to hear all about it, but nobly suppressed her curiosity.
“My dear, don’t be rowdy. It isn’t that I don’t love your being young, but being rowdy and getting drunk are bad form, you know. I adore your coming in like this, and telling me about it, and I can’t bear to be unsympathetic, but I am rather unsympathetic over riots. And it is such a waste of time to get tipsy, tell Mr. Badsley so.”
Robin began to laugh again.
“Shall I tell it him with your love, mother?” he asked. “He’s madly devoted to you. He thinks you’re the most wonderful female he ever saw. If father was dead he would propose to you to-morrow. Then he’d become my step-father, if you accepted him. Lord! Fancy having Badders as a step-father!”
Lady Grote tried hard to feel as old as she was, and utterly failed to accomplish that ridiculous feat.
“Oh, did he like me, Robin?” she said. “That was nice of him.”
Robin had an awful twinkle in his guileless eyes.