She put a hand over his mouth, smiling into his eyes.
"And if I were the most awful old squaw alive you wouldn't think it, and neither do they," she said. "You'd be just as glad to see me if I were ugly and dowdy, Dickie-boy."
"I would, but I'm jolly glad you're not," returned her son. "I'm just frightfully proud when you come to school, and you should hear what the fellows say about you. So there!" He tucked her hand into his arm—she had blushed like a girl at his words—and half pulled her out of the room. "Come along, or someone'll come and talk to you, and that would waste an awful lot of precious time."
There were a thousand questions to ask as the train whisked them towards Melbourne. Dick's father had been for a year in England; there was a letter from him, Mrs. Lester said, rather vaguely. Dick could read it presently. Apart from father there was home—the big station up north, with its myriad interests; dogs and horses—all old friends—cattle, and the prospects of the season ahead; Dick's pet wallaby and rabbits and pigeons, and all the station people who made up the little circle in which his life had been spent until school claimed him; overseer, stockman, boundary riders; cook, with her big heart and her amazing capacity for sending wonderful hampers; old nurse, who had a somewhat disconcerting way of still regarding him as her baby, but who came very close in his affections for all that. Dick had not found out half that he wanted to know when the short journey came to an end, and they found themselves at the familiar hotel.
"We'll have lunch," said Mrs. Lester. "It must be nearly one o'clock. Then we'll go up to my room and talk before we go out."
Dick shot a quick glance at her. They were very close friends, these two; during all his thirteen years they had never been apart for more than a few days until he went to school, and he knew every intonation of her voice, every changing shade of expression on her face. Now he suddenly understood that something new was to be manifested in that talk; and therefore he ate his lunch with some impatience, though without anxiety, seeing that his mother was far too cheerful for any trouble to be hovering near. This was as well, since the lunch was something of an event to a small boy at the end of a long term of the "plain and wholesome" food of boarding school; and as his mother was very merry, and the rooms crowded with people all more or less interesting, and a good string band was playing lively music in a palm-fringed gallery at the end of the room, the moment was sufficiently enthralling to keep Dick from much speculation as to the mystery.
"Nothing more, sonnie?"
"No thanks." Dick regarded with affection a dish that had held trifle. "That was a topping lunch, mother. Have you finished?"
His mother nodded, gathering up her furs.
"Come upstairs—I want to consult you about something."