"Ah, you ask too much of me; I am only a woman; I have no influence over him," she said sadly, and shook her head.
"What is his age?"
"He is forty-seven."
Mahony had put him down for at least ten years older, and said so. But the lady was not listening: she fidgeted with her lace-edged handkerchief, looked uneasy, seemed to be in debate with herself. Finally she said aloud: "Yes, I will." And to him: "Doctor, would you come with me a moment?"
This time she conducted him to a well-appointed bedchamber, off which gave a smaller room, containing a little four-poster draped in dimity. With a vague gesture in the direction of the bed, she sank on a chair beside the door.
Drawing the curtains Mahony discovered a fair-haired boy of some eight or nine years old. He lay with his head far back, his mouth wide open—apparently fast asleep.
But the doctor's eye was quick to see that it was no natural sleep. "Good God! who is responsible for this?"
Mrs. Glendinning held her handkerchief to her face. "I have never told any one before," she wept. "The shame of it, doctor ... is more than I can bear."
"Who is the blackguard? Come, answer me, if you please!"
"Oh, doctor, don't scold me... I am so unhappy." The pretty face puckered and creased; the full bosom heaved. "He is all I have. And such a bright, clever little fellow! You will cure him for me, won't you?"