But the accusation was lost. Amos was on the long stair rail shooting to the bottom like a sack of wheat.
When the old-fashioned supper bell clanged out in the hall below, Morey, white of face, marched downstairs and into the dining room in silence. At the humble board with Morey’s trout, almost the only dish, on the snowy white cloth before her, sat his mother, also pale, but with her usual smile. A look of surprise swept over her face as she noticed that Morey had ignored her orders.
“The evening is very agreeable,” said his mother softly. “It will be light for some time. Major Carey has asked you to come and see him. We are going immediately after supper. I have ordered out the carriage.”
“Won’t tomorrow do?” said Morey sharply—and then he was sorry.
“If you prefer,” answered his mother. “Your trout are delicious.”
“Oh, I’ll go tonight,” said Morey, ashamed of his anger.
“The Careys are our oldest friends,” went on his mother, smiling again. “I had hoped you would look your best. When Major Carey does me the honor to appear in our home he comes clothed as a gentleman. He carries his gold-headed cane. His linen is immaculate.”
“It won’t take me but a minute,” said Morey, crowding back a tear of mortification but disposing of a couple of crisp trout nevertheless. “I’ll be ready as soon as you are.”
He was about to dash from the room when he turned, hastened to his mother’s side and kissed her on the cheek.