"I have never called any by that name," he said, slowly, looking away. "I never knew a mother."
"That will excuse a great many things in a man's life," she said, in sympathy. "You have no remembrance, then?"
"None. She died when I was an infant, I suppose, and I grew up, principally, in schools."
"And your father?"
"He also—died." He was reckless for the moment. "Sometimes I think I will ask you to let me call you—mother. It is late to begin, but think of a man's living and dying without once speaking the name to a woman."
"Call me that if you will. You are certainly all that a son could be to me."
"Mother," he said, reflectively, "mother," and then looking toward Mary he saw that, though reading, her face was crimson; "that gives me a sister, does it not?" he added, to relieve the situation. She glanced toward him, smiling.
"As you will, brother Edward—how natural."
"I like the mother better," he said, after a pause. "I have observed that brothers do not wear well. I should hate to see the day when it would not be a pleasure to be with you, Miss Montjoy." He could not control nor define his mood.
"Then," she said, with eyes upon the book, "let it not be brother. I would be sorry to see you drift away—we are all your friends."