“Richard, my boy,” said Mrs Glaire, rising and standing before him, “can you not be frank and candid with your own mother?”
“You won’t let me,” he said; “you do nothing but bully me.”
“When I tell you of your danger; when I remind you that you are standing on the edge of a precipice—”
“Oh, hang the precipice!” he cried; “you said that before.”
“When I warn you of the ruin, and beg of you on my knees, my boy, if you like, not to pursue this girl—not to yield to a weak, mad passion that will only bring you misery and regret to the end of your days, for you would never marry her.”
“Well, it isn’t likely,” he said, brutally.
“Dick—Dick,” cried Mrs Glaire, passionately, roused by the callous tone in which he spoke, “are you in your right senses, or have you been drinking? It cannot be my boy who speaks!”
“Well, there, all right, mother, I’ll own to it all,” he said, flippantly, and then he winced as the poor woman cast her arms round his neck, and strained him to her breast.
“I knew you would, my boy, as soon as the good in your nature got the upper hand. And now, Dick, you’ll promise me you won’t see Daisy Banks any more.”
“All right, mother, I won’t.”