“Yes?” said Julian indifferently.
A fellow didn’t always want to be entertained, he was saying to himself irritably; it was a nuisance. His thoughts had wandered completely, and he was going over a fruitless hour which he had spent alone walking up and down a certain side-street off Piccadilly, on the previous evening—an hour which was accountable for his gloomy humour this morning—when he became aware of his mother’s voice saying with insistent gaiety:
“Well, sir, aren’t you broken-hearted?”
Julian started and made a futile effort to realise what his mother had said. The necessity for the effort and its failure proved by no means soothing to him, and he said rather impatiently:
“I’m awfully sorry, mother, but I’m afraid I didn’t hear.”
“He didn’t hear!” echoed Mrs. Romayne in mock appeal to heaven and earth to witness the fact. She, too, had made an effort and a failure, and the result with her was to increase her nervous recklessness. “Five weeks ago he was ready to eat his poor little mother because she prevented his proposing to this young woman, and now when I tell him she’s engaged he doesn’t even hear! Perhaps you’ve forgotten Hilda Newton’s very existence, my lord! Who is her successor?”
Julian flushed angrily, and his good-looking face took a sullen expression.
“She’s not likely to have a successor, as you call it,” he said. “A fellow doesn’t care to have that kind of thing happen twice.”
His mother broke into a thin, nervous laugh.
“You don’t mean to say it rankles still!” she said gaily. “Is this the reason of your devotion to work and ‘fellows’? You silly old boy, you ought to be thoroughly glad of your escape by this time! I think I shall follow Dennis Falconer’s advice, and cut down your allowance to teach you reason. Shall I?”