“She’s ready; she’s expecting you,” he interposed.
He offered no further explanation, and I followed him in silence. He led me down the long corridor, and pushed open the door of a sitting-room.
“Mother,” he said, closing the door after we had entered, “here’s the gentleman who says he used to know you.”
Mrs. Amyot, who sat in an easy-chair stirring a cup of bouillon, looked up with a start. She had evidently not seen me in the audience, and her son’s description had failed to convey my identity. I saw a frightened look in her eyes; then, like a frost flower on a window-pane, the dimple expanded on her wrinkled cheek, and she held out her hand.
“I’m so glad,” she said, “so glad!”
She turned to her son, who stood watching us. “You must have told Lancelot all about me—you’ve known me so long!”
“I haven’t had time to talk to your son—since I knew he was your son,” I explained.
Her brow cleared. “Then you haven’t had time to say anything very dreadful?” she said with a laugh.
“It is he who has been saying dreadful things,” I returned, trying to fall in with her tone.
I saw my mistake. “What things?” she faltered.