"Oh, I think Mr. Lancelot can hold his own," said Urquhart. "He'll do—with his mother to help. I don't suppose the Spartan boy differed very much from any other kind of boy. Mostly they haven't time to notice anything; but they are sharp as razors when they do."
An eager note could be detected in Francis Lingen's voice, almost a crow. "Ah, you've noticed then! The mother, I mean. Mrs. Macartney. Now, there again, I think our friend overdoes the repression business. A sympathetic attitude means so much to women."
"She'll get it, somewhere," said Urquhart shortly.
"Well," said Lingen, "yes, I suppose so. But there are the qualifications of the martyr in Mrs. Macartney."
"Greensickness," Urquhart proposed; "is that what you mean?"
Lingen stared. "It had not occurred to me. But now you mention it—well, a congestion of the faculties, eh?"
"I don't know anything about it," said Urquhart. "She seemed to me a fond mother, and very properly. Do you mean that Macartney neglects her?"
Lingen was timid by nature. "Perhaps I went further than I should. I think that he takes a great deal for granted."
"I always thought he was a supercilious ass," said Urquhart, "but I didn't know that he was a damned fool."
"I say,"—Lingen was alarmed. "I say, I hope I haven't made mischief." Urquhart relieved him. "Bless you, not with me. I use a lawyer for law. He's no fool there."