"I should have loved her as well if she had been a beggar in the streets, and had hung about the doors of public-houses with me in her arms. To me she is not Mrs. Rutherford, but just the sweetest, tenderest mother on this earth—and she would have been the same if Fate had made her a beggar."
"You believe that in your fantastic fits—but you know it ain't true," said his friend.
Mrs. Rutherford looked up with a radiant face when her son entered the room. She had heard his light step on the stair. He had a latchkey, and there was no other sound to announce his coming.
"Am I late, mother?"
"It is eight minutes past five."
"And you have been watching the clock instead of taking your tea."
The butler entered with the tea-pot as he spoke, having made the tea immediately upon hearing the hall door open.
"What have you been doing with yourself this afternoon, dearest?" Mrs. Rutherford asked, looking up at him fondly, as he stood with his back to the mantelpiece, looking down at her.
"Loafing as usual. I looked in at the New Gallery—their winter show began to-day—half a dozen grand things—the rest croûtes."