“As absurd as ever, mother, and younger I’m certain.” He thought he had never seen his mother radiant with so ethereal a beauty. “You pet,” he went on, taking her hand, “I never dreamed of your meeting me.”
“But what a lovely blue engine they gave your train, dearest,” and she slipped a cushion in Gaveston’s corner.
Gav nodded to the chauffeur.
“I’ll drive,” he said, and then quickly: “No, I won’t. Home, Curzon.”
And he got inside the luxurious coupé beside Lady Penhaligon. For suddenly he had seen his mother’s sombre eyelids fluttering in that faint pathetic way they had. How helpless, how pitiful that look was! And how terribly familiar! It only appeared when her life had reached one of its great crises.
The car sped from the station.
“And now, dearest, you’ll be able to help me,” Gav heard his mother murmuring as she fumbled in the embossed leather pocket on the door of the car. He felt sure something had happened.
“Not again, Mums?” he asked with a gentle but worldly smile.
“Yes: respondent,” she smiled back. “But, seriously, do you think black is really necessary?” and she handed him a folded copy of The Times.