“Sit down, child,” said the Baroness. “Are you glad to be home again?”
A lump in the strong man’s throat prevented immediate reply. Presently he took his mother’s jewelled fingers in his own. “And what have you been doing all this time?” he said.
“Doing? But, my dear, we have been living. What else should we do? It is you who have shot the tigers. Nothing has happened here.”
“Grandpa is dead,” said Otto, meditatively.
“Ah, yes, grandpapa is dead. That is very sad, but he had been childish for years. He lived up-stairs in the blue-room and never came out of it. He did not know us. He used to mistake me for some horrid recollection of his youth, and call me Niniche. It was very embarrassing.”
They were both silent.
“Your father said it was a great compliment,” added the Baroness, gravely.
“And his pension? What has become of that? How did you manage? I have often wanted to ask.”
“Well, of course, his pension went. Your father had always said it would make a tremendous difference. I cannot say I find it has.”