“Nonsense,” replied he; “it must be one of my mother's.”
“Does Mrs. Coleman wear such spicy affairs as this?” said I, holding up for his inspection a most piquant little velvet bonnet lined with pink.
“By Jove, no!” was the reply; “a mysterious young lady! I say, Frank, this is interesting.”
As he spoke the door flew open, and Mrs. Coleman bustled in, in a great state of maternal affection, and fuss, and confusion, and agitation.
“Why, Freddy, my dear boy, I'm delighted to see you, only I wish you hadn't come just now;—and you too, Mr. Fairlegh—and such a small loin of mutton for dinner; but I'm so glad to see you—looking like a ghost, so pale and thin,” she added, shaking me warmly by the hand; “but what I am to do about it, or to say to him when he comes back—only I'm not a prophet to guess things before they happen—and if I did I should always be wrong, so what use would that be, I should like to know?”
“Why, what's the row, eh, mother? the cat hasn't kittened, has she?” asked Freddy.
“No, my dear, no, it's not that; but, your father being in town, it has all come upon me so unexpectedly; poor thing! and she looking so pretty, too; oh, dear! when I said I was all alone, I never thought I shouldn't be; and so he left her here.”
“And who may her be?” inquired Freddy, setting grammar at defiance, “the cat or the governor?”