The words might have been the merest comment in themselves; but there was something in the bright tone in which they were spoken, something—half suggestion, half invitation—which implied a desire to make them the opening of a conversation. Julian Romayne’s perceptions, however, were by no means of the acutest, and he detected no undertone.
“So it is!” he assented, with dreamy cheerfulness.
“How long did you spend in Cairo?”
The question, which came after a pause, was evidently another attempt on a new line. Again it failed.
“Didn’t I tell you? Ten days!” said Julian lazily.
Mrs. Romayne changed her position. She leant forward, her elbow on her knee, her cheek resting on her hand, the screen still shading her face.
“The catechism is going to begin,” she said gaily.
Julian’s cigar was finished. He roused himself, and dropped the end into the ash-tray by his side as he said with a smile:
“What catechism?”
“Your catechism, sir,” returned his mother. “Do you suppose I am going to let you off without insisting on a full and particular account of all your doings during the last ten weeks?”