“James, my dear, pray, pray don’t be so violent.”
“But I will be violent. I am in no humour to be dictated to now. I’ll let some of you see that I’m master.”
“But poor dear Claud is so big now.”
“I don’t care how big he is—a great stupid oaf! Go and tell him what I say. And look here, woman.”
“Yes, dear,” said Mrs Wilton, plaintively.
“I mean it. If he don’t come at once, big as he is, I’ll take up the horsewhip.”
Mrs Wilton stifled a sob, and went up to her son’s room and entered, to find him lying on his bed with his boots resting on the bottom rail, a strong odour of tobacco pervading the room, and a patch or two of cigar ashes soiling the counterpane.
“Claud, my dearest, you shouldn’t smoke up here,” she said, tenderly, as she laid her hand upon her son’s forehead. “How are you now, darling?”
“Damned bad.”
“Oh, not quite so bad as that, dearest. Dinner is quite ready.”