The mother looked him wistfully up and down.
"Yes, I am—as jealous as possible. I miss you so, dear."
Griff, in a man's way, had not been wont to give an over-careful regard to the looks of those who were constantly about him. Something in his mother's tone, however, a certain touch of helplessness that was foreign to her character, set him scrutinizing her face. She seemed older and more worn, he thought, than when he first returned home, a year ago.
"You don't look quite yourself, old lady," he said tenderly. "Let's spend the afternoon in the garden, under that ridiculous lilac-tree which thinks it can grow at the edge of a moor."
"It is a very fine lilac, Griff," snapped Mrs. Lomax.
"Ah, I thought the fight wasn't all dead in you. Well, I won't abuse the lilac, and I'll even drink your home-made wine without a murmur, if only you will promise to amuse me this afternoon. I'm lazy, mother; don't let us go for a walk."
"Which means that you think me feebler than I was. Oh, yes, you do! I saw it in your face as you looked at me just now. I have a good mind to show you what I can do when I choose."
By way of answer Griff threaded his arm through hers, led her into the garden, and set her down by main force in the shady seat under the lilac-bushes.
"I have good news for you, mother," he said, breaking a long pause.