'His name is Alexander Curzon, but mother called him The Seraph, so we jus' keep on doing it too.'
'Um-hm,' assented the old gentleman; 'and you—what’s your name?'
'John,' I replied.
'Oh,' he said, with an odd little smile, 'and what do they keep on calling you?'
'Just John,' I answered firmly, 'nothing else.'
'Who’s your father?' came the next question.
'He’s David Curzon, senior,' I said proudly, 'and he’s in South America building a railroad, an’ Mrs. Handsomebody used to be his governess when he was a little boy, so he left us with her; but some day, pretty soon, I think, he’s coming back to make a really home for us with rabbits an’ puppies an’ pigeons an’ things.'
Our new friend nodded sympathetically. Then, quite suddenly, he asked,—
'Where’s your mother?'
'She’s in heaven,' I answered simply. 'She went there two years ago.'