Geoffrey could but note the tenderness in her tone as she spoke Allan's name.
"And who is this double of mine, mother; and what is he, and how does he come to be engaged to that dainty, dark-eyed girl?"
"You like Suzette?"
"Yes, I like her—she is a nice, winning thing—not startlingly pretty; but altogether nice. I like the way that dark silky hair of hers breaks up into tiny curls about her forehead—and she has fine eyes——"
"India has made you critical, Geoffrey."
"Not India, but a native disposition, mother dearest. In India we have often to put up with second best in the way of beauty, faded carnations, tired eyes, hollow cheeks; but the young women have generally plenty to say for themselves. They can talk, and they can dance. They are educated for the marriage market before they are sent out."
His mother laughed, and hung on to his arm admiringly. In her opinion, whatever he said was either wise or witty. All his impertinences were graceful. His ignorance was better than other people's knowledge.
"You have not neglected your violin, I hope, Geoffrey?"
"No, mother. My good little Strad has been my friend and comrade in many a quiet hour while the other fellows were at cards, or telling stale stories. I shall be very glad to play the old de Beriot duets again. Your fingers have not lost their cunning, I know."
"I have played a great deal while you were away. I have had nothing else to think about."