She had her invalid’s lunch brought to her where she sat, and she was still in her chair when she heard the sound of his motor returning. He strolled round to her on the terrace at once, still wearing his flannels.
“Well, what sort of a day had you—rollicking, eh?” he cried. “I got away in good time to have tea with you. They had no use for me any more.”
“Did you not play after all?” she asked; she felt sure that he had not troubled himself to play, or if he had played it was only one set. She knew his ways.
“Oh, yes, I played,” he replied.
“But you did nothing? How could you expect to do anything? You left here not caring whether you played or not. I wish you wouldn’t take it all so pleasantly. Why don’t you rail against your luck?”
“I don’t see why the mischief I should; I’ve nothing to complain of in the way of luck,” said he.
“That’s the way with you, Jack—it has always been the way with you; you will blame no one and nothing—only yourself.”
“That shows how strongly developed is my sense of justice, dear mother. I should make a first-class judge, if I hadn’t to debase myself by being a lawyer to start with. But you see I am just enough not to blame my luck.”
“You had no luck, I suppose, all the same?”
“Not a scrap. I did it all by sheer good play, and a straight upper lip.”