“My Dear Mrs. Winchfield.—
“I am in great distress about my son. You don’t believe I’ve got one? Oh, but I give you my word! He’s just reached me from America, where I left him as a hostage a quarter of a century ago. And he’s full of the most awful heathenish ideas. I never met so serious a person. He doesn’t drink, he doesn’t smoke; he thinks I’m undignified, if you can imagine that; and he objects to my calling him Hal, though his name is Harold. I feel like a frisky little boy beside him,—like the child that is father to the man. Then his thirst for knowledge is positively disgraceful. He has nearly killed me to-day, doing London, guide-book in hand, and asking such embarrassing questions. Can you tell me, please, how long the Houses of Parliament were a-building?
“And how many dollars there are in the vaults of the Bank of England? And what the salary of a policeman is? And who is ‘about the biggest lawyer over here?’ The way he dragged me up and down the town was most unfilial. We’ve been everywhere, I think, except to my club. But he’s a very good-looking fellow, and I don’t doubt he’s got the right sort of stuff dormant in him somewhere, only it wants bringing out. I can’t help feeling that what he needs is the influence of a fine, sensitive, irresponsible woman, someone altogether wayward and ribald, to lighten and loosen him, and impart a little froth and elasticity.
“I was entirely broken-hearted when I heard that you were going to stop at Sere all summer; but even for adversity there are sweet uses; and I wish you would ask my boy down to stay with you. I’m sure you can do him good, unless too many months of country air have made a sober woman of you. Do try to Christianise him, and a father’s heart will reward you with its blessing.
“Yours always,
“A. Weir.”
Then Harold went down to Sere; and a fortnight later Mrs. Winchfield wrote as follows to his parent:—
“Dear Weir,—
“I’m afraid it’s hopeless. I’ve done my utmost, and I’ve failed grotesquely. Yesterday I chanced to say, in your young one’s presence, to Colonel Buttington, who’s staying here, that if my husband were only away, I should so enjoy a desperate flirtation with him. Harold, dear boy, looked scandalised, and by and by, catching me alone, he asked (in the words of Father William’s interlocutor) whether I thought at my age it was right? He is like the Frenchman who took his wife to the play, and chid her when she laughed, saying, ‘Nous ne sommes pas ici pour nous amuser,’ I am sending him back by the morning train to morrow. Keep him with you, and try to cultivate a few domestic virtues. A vous,
“Margaret Winchfield.”