“Nance, where are you? Poor Fido is not well—not well at all.”
For the moment Rupert believed that he was home at Windyhough again. Fido’s bark, the need paramount that his wants must be served at once, were like old days.
“They have not told her you are here,” said Nance. “I’ll run up and break the news.”
When Rupert came into the parlour up above, Fido, true to old habit, ran yapping round him, and bit his riding-boots; for he hated men, because they knew him for a lap-dog. And, after the din had died down a little, Rupert stepped to his mother’s side, and stooped to kiss her hand. And she looked him up and down; and the motherhood in her was keen and proved, but she could forego old habits as little as could Fido.
“Dear heart, what clothes to wear in Edinburgh!” she cried. “It’s as well you’re not known in the town for a Royd.”
“Yes, it’s as well, mother,” he answered dryly.
“You are thinner than you were, Rupert, and straighter in the shoulders, and—and many things have happened to you.”
“I rode out for happenings.”
“Oh, yes, you’re so like your father; and they tell me what you’ve done——”
“And you, mother?” he broke in. “There are gentlemen of the Prince’s who would not be safe in France to-day without your help—yours and Nance’s.”