“So the children are to be congratulated,” remarked Ludovic meditatively, as though summing up the situation.
“Well,” said his mother apologetically, “you know what I mean. Poor Mrs. Grantham was so ill, and she really was erratic—those long earrings, and all that music, and she seemed altogether more Hungarian than English, which was natural enough, I dare say, but not the best sort of thing for the daughters of an English father. One wouldn’t say anything unkind for the world—de mortuis—you know what I mean, dear, though I can never recollect the end of that proverb—or is it some sort of text?”
“I know what you mean,” Ludovic gravely assured her.
This untruth had been for many years his conversational cheval-de-bataille in intercourse with his mother.
“You always do, darling,” she returned gratefully. “So much more like a daughter than a son.”
She sighed, and Ludovic wondered if the sigh were a tribute to the thought of her own non-existent daughter, or to the infirmity which had kept her only son at home, to limp his way through life in the Wye valley.
“Anyway,” his mother concluded as though presenting a final solution, “Bertie is bringing the poor children here this afternoon to say good-bye to me. It will be very good for them to come out, and Bertie is so wonderfully broad-minded—there’s no conventional nonsense about her. I do want you to meet her, Ludovic.”
“Very well, mother dear. I’m rather curious, I’ve heard so much about her.”
Towards five o’clock of that crisp October afternoon, Ludovic Argent’s curiosity was gratified.
He limped into the library and found his mother in earnest conversation with her friend.