“Good-night, my boy,” she said. “I must leave you now. You will be together.”
“Don’t think of going yet,” he cried.
“I have not been quite so well to-day,” she said. “I just got up so as to be able to welcome you both, but it has been too much for me. You will say good-night to her for me.”
“You do look very pale and frail, my dearest,” he said. “You should not have left your bed. We could easily have put off our return for another day.”
“Oh, I’m not so ill as all that,” she said, with a laugh. “But you know how I need to be careful. If I have a good night I may be able to breakfast with you in the morning. Good night, my own boy. God bless you.”
“God has blessed me,” he said. “I have the best mother in the world—the best wife in the world.”
He put her in the hands of her maid, who was waiting for her in the corridor at the head of the staircase. Then he walked to the further end of the same corridor and stood at the window, looking out at the dissolving crowds below, hearing the “chaff” of the boys and the girls, and the cackling laughter of incipient but certainly not insipid love-making. The advances of the young men were no more deficient in warmth than was the retreat of the young women. The giggle and the shriek were, of course, the natural accompaniments of this playfulness.
And the Meistersingers were giving their serenade in a self-respecting style. Mr. Tutt knew all about how that sort of thing should be done. He had spent close upon three months at Leipzig, studying music on its highest plane and becoming thoroughly familiar with the varying aspects of German sentimentality.
Jack was waiting for the sound of Priscilla’s door and of her steps on the corridor. Half-an-hour had passed since she had gone upstairs, and she was not the girl to be making an elaborate toilet at this time. She should have been ready long ago.
He returned half-way down the corridor, and entered his own dressing-room to change his coat and brush his hair. The bedroom was in silence.