"Is that so, John?" she said. "Why, I'm so glad!" A faint spot of color came into the faded cheeks, and the old eyes brightened. "Well, I'm sure you deserved it. They couldn't pay you more than you're worth."
"No," said Eddring, grimly, "they are not apt to." His mother caught no hidden meaning, but went on.
"You're a good business man, John, I know," said she, "and I know you have always been a gentleman in your work." Here spoke the old South, its pride visible in the lift of the white crowned head, and the flash of an eye not yet dimmed in spite of the gentleness of the pale, thin face.
Eddring gulped a bit. "Well, you know, in business," said he, "a fellow pretty near has to choose—"
"And you have always chosen to be a gentleman."
"As near as I could, mother," said he, gravely. "I have just done the best I could. Now, as I was saying, I am feeling mighty fine to-day. Everything coming out so well—the truth is—"
"John," said his mother, sharply, "why do you say 'the fact is,' and 'the truth is'? You don't usually do that."
He did not answer, and there went on the subtle self-communings of the mother-brain, exceedingly difficult to lead astray. For the time she did not voice her thought, but approaching him, placed a hand upon his shoulder, and brushed back a lock of hair from his forehead.
"Pretty gray, isn't it, mother?" said he, smiling at her.
"Nonsense! Is that what you were thinking about?"