Mrs. Le Roy laid her delicate hand, all glittering with jewels, on the shoulder of her idolized son.
"St. Leon, you talk of growing old," she said. "My son, does not the flight of time remind you that you are neglecting a duty you owe to yourself?"
He turned to look curiously into her face, and the white figure out among the trees wandered further away, seeking new delights, like the bright-winged butterflies, among the flowers. The echo of her song died in the distance.
"Duty, mother," he said, carelessly. "I did not know that the vocabulary of my life contained that hard word. I thought all I had to do was to 'eat, drink, and'"—sarcastically—"'be merry.'"
"St. Leon, you are but feigning ignorance of my meaning," she said, wistfully. "You understand me."
"Upon my honor, no," he said. "Explain yourself."
"You should marry."
A dark-red flush crept under his olive skin. His slender, straight black brows met in a frown over the proud dark eyes.
"I thought we had dropped that subject ages ago," he said, frigidly.