"I like the old way best," said Peter.
"But this is so much more becoming, Peter."
"A fellow doesn't care," said Peter, loftily, "whether his mother's hair is becoming or not. He likes to see her always the same as when he was a little chap."
"It is—sweet of you, to have such a thought," murmured Lady Mary. She took her courage in both hands. "But the other way is out of fashion, Peter."
"Why, mother, you never used to follow the fashions before I went away; you won't begin now, at your age, will you?"
"At my age" repeated Lady Mary, blankly. Then she looked at him with that wondering, pathetic smile, which seemed to have replaced already, since Peter came home, the joyousness which had timidly stolen back from her vanished youth. "At my age!" said Lady Mary; "you are not very complimentary, Peter."
"You don't expect a fellow to pay compliments to his mother," said Peter, staring at her. "Why, mother, what has come to you? And besides—"
"Besides?"
"I'm sure papa hated compliments, and all that sort of rot," Peter blurted out, in boyish fashion. "Don't you remember how fond he was of quoting, 'Praise to the face is open disgrace'?"
The late Sir Timothy, like many middle-class people, had taken a compliment almost as a personal offence; and regarded the utterer, however gracious or sincere, with suspicion. Neither had the squire himself erred on the side of flattering his fellow-creatures.