"I don't think your dear mother's health would be equal to London, this year, Leonard," said Christabel, gravely.
She was angry with this beloved and only son for not having seen the change in his mother's appearance—for talking so loudly and so lightly, as if there were nothing to be thought of in life except his own pleasure.
"What, old lady, are you under the weather?" he asked, turning to survey his mother with a critical air.
This was his American manner of inquiring after her health. Mrs. Tregonell, when the meaning of the phrase had been explained to her, confessed herself an invalid, for whom the placid monotony of rural life was much safer than the dissipation of a London season.
"Oh, very well," said Leonard with a shrug; "then you and Belle must stop at home and take care of each other—and I can have six weeks in London en garçon. It won't be worth while to open the house in Bolton Row—I'd rather stop at an hotel."
"But you won't leave me directly after your return, Leonard?"
"No, no, of course not. Not till after Easter. Easter's three weeks ahead of us. You'll be tired enough of me by that time."
"Tired of you! After three years' absence?"
"Well, you must have got accustomed to doing without me, don't you know," said Leonard, with charming frankness. "When a man has been three years away he can't hurt his friend's feelings much if he dies abroad. They've learnt how easy it is to get along without him."
"Leonard! how can you say such cruel things?" expostulated his mother, with tears in her eyes. The very mention of death, as among the possibilities of existence, scared her.