“Well, I quite agree with them both,” he remarked disagreeably. “I’ve never seen you look better, mother—the picture of health.”
His mother smiled the pitying smile of one better informed, and Morris, subconsciously aware of it, gazed straight ahead of him with absorbed determination.
“I’m afraid what I call my best would be a very poor state of health for most people,” murmured Nina, and added hurriedly: “Don’t talk to me any more, Morris, I want to close my eyes. I had a very nearly sleepless night.”
Morris was not minded to concede to his parent the feminine privilege of the last word.
“I’m sure you must be much stronger than you suppose, mother, if you can sleep when you’re nervous.”
On this encouraging reflection he drove the car with great and unnecessary rapidity to the junction where the chauffeur met him and took charge of it, while Morris and his mother proceeded to Cornwall by train.
The journey was made by Morris in a smoking carriage, with the considerate remark: “Do finish your doze in peace, mother. I want to smoke, and besides, I wouldn’t disturb you for the world.”
It may reasonably be conjectured that the annoyed Mrs. Severing did not follow this filial advice.
The ensuing days at Pensevern were pleasant neither to Nina nor to her son.
Morris played the piano stormily, and Nina, wincing perceptibly, said: