Horace leaned forward and drooped his head.
‘I don’t think you form anything like a right idea of her,’ he said.
The other moved impatiently.
‘My dear boy, I know her as well as if I’d lived with her for years. Oh, how silly you are! But then you are so young, so very young.’
With the vexation on her face there blended, as she looked at him, a tenderness unmistakably genuine.
‘Now, I’ll tell you what. I have really no objection to make Fanny’s acquaintance. Suppose, after all, you bring her to see me one of these days. Not just yet. You must wait till I am in the mood for it. But before very long.’
Horace looked up with pleasure and gratitude.
‘Now, that’s really kind of you!’
‘Really? And all the rest is only pretended kindness? Silly boy! Some day you will know better. Now, think, Horace; suppose you were so unhappy as to lose your father. Could you, as soon as he was gone, do something that you know would have pained him deeply?’
The pathetic note was a little strained; putting her head aside, Mrs. Damerel looked rather like a sentimental picture in an advertisement. Horace did not reply.