In the hall he came on his uncle, General Pendyce. He came on him from behind, but knew him at once by that look of feeble activity about the back of his knees, by his sloping yet upright shoulders, and the sound of his voice, with its dry and querulous precision, as of a man whose occupation has been taken from him.
The General turned round.
“Ah, George,” he said, “your mother's here, isn't she? Look at this that your father's sent me!”
He held out a telegram in a shaky hand.
“Margery up at Green's Hotel. Go and see her at once.
“HORACE.”
And while George read the General looked at his nephew with eyes that were ringed by little circles of darker pigment, and had crow's-footed purses of skin beneath, earned by serving his country in tropical climes.
“What's the meaning of it?” he said. “Go and see her? Of course, I'll go and see her! Always glad to see your mother. But where's all the hurry?”
George perceived well enough that his father's pride would not let him write to her, and though it was for himself that his mother had taken this step, he sympathised with his father. The General fortunately gave him little time to answer.
“She's up to get herself some dresses, I suppose? I've seen nothing of you for a long time. When are you coming to dine with me? I heard at Epsom that you'd sold your horse. What made you do that? What's your father telegraphing to me like this for? It's not like him. Your mother's not ill, is she?”