“Well, mother, I wish he had left me some of his money.”
My mother’s face turned still paler. She made no reply, but, walking across the octagon room, she spent some little time examining the old furniture, and touching it with reverent fingers.
“Rosamund,” she said suddenly, “I am tired. This day has been too much for me. We will go home now.”
I took the ring home in my pocket. This was a dangerous thing to do, and Mr Gray looked somewhat grave as he saw me slip such a precious relic into so insecure a hiding-place.
“Do keep out of crowds,” he said. “Beware of pickpockets when you get to Paddington, and, above all, keep your pocket side next your mother when you get into the train.”
I don’t think I attended to any of these directions, but the little old brown morocco case containing Cousin Geoffrey’s legacy arrived safely at Ivy Lodge, the name of our humble abode.
My mother and I got back in time for supper. My father and the boys arrived home as usual, and we sat down together to our supper.
I felt excited and full of my subject.
Surely on this night the departed relative might be mentioned; the curious scene after the funeral might be detailed for the benefit of those who were not present. But, as we approached the table, my mother held up a warning, finger.
“Not a word about Cousin Geoffrey,” she whispered to me.