The child, whose lamp one of the footmen had lighted now, passed through the hall, carrying it carefully. She called to him.
"Come here, John. Don't you know me to-day? Where is your mother?"
He was advancing towards her but checked himself at the inquiry.
"She said not to take no one up the stairs," he informed them with emphasis. "She are having a key made for the door."
He spoke clearly and with only a slight slurring of the S's which could not be described as a lisp but which gave a more human childishness to his unnatural gravity.
Scarcely concealing the effort it cost, Cyprian raised his head and looked at him. Yes. That hair, also, would have flaunted a rebellious crop of sunny waves had they been allowed to grow. He was too white and frail-looking for prettiness but it was with his mother's wide steady gaze that he returned Cyprian's survey which shifted first.
"Nonsense!" said Aunt B. on a low quaver of amusement, "you can't afford to be jealous of Ferlie's son."
Cyprian replied with a vexed laugh,
"Don't read me so clearly out loud. There are some things a man wishes to hide from himself."
She rose, holding out her hand to John.