"No, ma'am?" The tone was patronizing contempt. "You might have been the wiser of it. Colonel Oliver Boyce—he has taken the title lately—when I knew him he was something in the service of the Duke of Marlborough. Oh, a fine man to the eye, ma'am, and very splendid in his talk."
"Why, that's his likeness," Alison laughed. "And what then, ma'am? Have you come seeking the Colonel? He is the Lord knows where. Or is it—faith, you don't tell me Harry is your son?"
"No, ma'am. At least I was spared bearing children."
"Oh—why, give you joy if you would have it so. But how can I serve you? Maybe your Colonel is not my Colonel after all. At least he and Harry are father and son heartily enough."
"It may be so, ma'am," said the lady heavily, and here Harry came in.
Alison looked up laughing and then frowned. Harry would not ever dress fine. His wig was still unfashionably small, he wore some sombre stuff, and to her eye (as she said) looked like a mole. "Here's Mr. Boyce, ma'am. Harry, Mrs. Oliver Boyce, who is come to say that you never had father nor mother."
"Your obliged servant, ma'am." Harry opened his eyes. "Pray, has my father married again?"
"You'll find, sir, that Colonel Boyce has only been married once."
"If you please, ma'am," said Harry blandly. "Pray, are you blaming him?
Or—" a gesture expressed his complete ignorance of what she was doing.
The lady seemed to force herself to laugh. "Oh, fie, sir. Sure it is not for me to blame him."