Decidedly, the stars were fighting for Nina Severing. She rose, with a gentle, sorrowful glance at her son.
“More business,” she sighed wearily, and left the room with her tardy, trailing step.
Morris, left alone, became instantly inspired with a number of conclusive arguments and dignified retorts which should have left his parent defenceless. He went through several imaginary conversations, with eloquence and reason on his side. But imaginary victories are but poor consolation for a defeat. Presently Morris groaned, ran his fingers through his thick hair, and muttered half aloud:
“Thwarted at every step. It’s enough to make one take the law into one’s own hands and go.”
He was always slightly dramatic, even when alone. “What is there for a man to do down here? Mother won’t even get a car.”
He reflected gloomily that few other chaps of his acquaintance were unable so much as to drive a motor-car, and then rebounded hastily on to the more exalted plane.
“Besides—music! It’s the only thing on earth. I shall go mad if I can’t take it up properly.”
His eyes lighted up, very much as he meant them to do, with the fire of the enthusiast, and he paced the room rapidly.
Presently a note in his mother’s handwriting was brought to him. His brow clouded. Nina’s written appeals, of which she was, like most weak natures, prodigal, never failed to irritate Morris, who had not yet learnt to be eloquent on paper.
“Darling,” she wrote with many dashes and splashes of her pen, “do not wait for luncheon. I shall be some time with Mr. Bartlett, and cannot interrupt business. Do think over our talk. I had a little surprise for you these holidays, which I meant to tell you later, but perhaps it may cheer you up. I am going to get the car you wanted so much, and Mr. Bartlett tells me he knows of a very good place in Bodmin. We might go in to-morrow and see, and perhaps arrange for some driving lessons for you. It will help you to get at some good music, too, and lessons, if you want them, later.”