But later that day, Sidney altered his mind. He had been sitting in the arm-chair apart from his father, revolving many things in that mind, and maintaining a silence which his father even began to think was strange—he whose thoughts were few and far between now—when he said suddenly to Ann Packet, who was entering on tiptoe with a candle:—
"Ann, fetch Mattie here at once."
"Mattie, Master Sidney?—to be sure I will," she added, with alacrity; "I've been thinking about that, oh! ever so long!"
"Be quick!—don't stop! Leave a message, if she's away. Here's money, hire a cab there and back. Take the key with you, and let yourself in!"
"What's that for, Sid!" asked the father.
"I think she should be here—I think all should be here who have ever known you, and whom you have expressed a wish to see. I am selfish and cruel!"
"Oh, ho!—we don't believe that, boy!" said the father, "we know better—oh! much better than that!"
"Why shouldn't the Wesdens come?—they are old friends—they were kind to you and me in the old days."
"Yes, very kind. You're quite right, Sid; but if they trouble you in the least, Sid, keep them away. I don't care about seeing anybody very much, now."
"Father, you are worse," said Sidney, leaping to his feet.