‘And who was the woman?’
‘By the name of Anne Champion, as I gathered, sir. I overheard their quarrel, sir, through the folding-doors betwixt the rooms in St. James’ Square, sir.’
‘So that was why you and Patty were so particular that we met outside, and altogether—eh, Peter?’
‘The same, sir.’
‘Ah, Peter, I have hope for you yet! Sometimes I think you scarce human, you are so dutiful and faithful, but you stooped to some deceit, I’m glad to hear, once, all along of Patty!’
Peter smiled his demure smile.
‘ ’Twas as you say, sir,—all along of Patty,’ he assented.
Phil reverted then to the quarrel. ‘Anne Champion, Anne Champion,’ he repeated. ‘And who was Anne Champion, think you, Peter?’
Peter came up to the fireplace, re-arranged the ornaments on the mantel-shelf, blew away a speck of imaginary dust from the gilt top of the clock, and then, speaking low, he said at last—
‘Your mother, sir, if I made no mistake, sir.’