“That’s right. Men talk about things when they are alone which would frighten ladies. She might get thinking that I should get up a quarrel with that Steinberg.”
“I’m sure my mother wouldn’t think anything of the sort,” said Frank, smiling at his friend’s conceit.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Andrew importantly. “Yes I do, though. It was a rather stupid remark. But I wish I were you, Frank,” he continued, with a genuine unspoiled boyish light coming into his eyes, which looked wistful and longing. “Perhaps, if I had a mother and father here in the court, I should be as loyal as you are.”
“Of course you would be. Well, they like you. You’re coming to dine with my father to-night, and I wish I could take you with me to see my mother early this afternoon.”
“Do you—do you really, Frank?” cried the lad eagerly.
“Of course I do; you know I always say what I mean.”
“Then thank you,” cried the lad warmly; “that’s almost as good as going.”
“I’ll ask her to invite you next time. Hallo! where are you off to?”
“Only to my room for a bit.”
“What for? Anything the matter?”