"Well, my dear?" she said, in her benignant, all-indulgent grandmother's voice.
"It is no use going beating about the bush," he said. "Granny, I'm not going to telegraph to mamma. I'll run up to London by the night mail."
"Pippo!"
"Well, it isn't so extraordinary; naturally I should like to tell her better than to write. It didn't quite come off, my telling it to you, did it? but my mother will be excited about it—and then it will be a surprise seeing me at all—and then if she is worried by business it will be a good thing to have me to stand by her. And—why there are a hundred reasons, granny, as you must see. And then I should like it above all."
"My dear," said Mrs. Dennistoun, trembling a little. She had time during this long speech to collect herself, to get over the first shock, but her nerves still vibrated. "In ordinary circumstances, I should think it an excellent plan. And you have worked well for it, and won your holiday; and your mother always enjoys wandering about town with you. Still, Pippo——"
"Now what can there be against it?" the boy said, with the same spark of fire coming into his blue eyes which had often been seen in Elinor's hazel ones. He was like the Comptons, a refined image of his father, with the blue eyes and very dark hair which had once made Phil Compton irresistible. Pippo had the habit, I am sorry to say, of being a little impatient with his grandmother. Her objections seemed old-world and obsolete at the first glance.
"The chief thing against it is that I don't think your mother—would wish it, Pippo."
"Mamma—think me a bore, perhaps!" the lad cried, with a laugh of almost scornful amusement at this ridiculous idea.
"She would never, of course, think you a bore in any circumstances—but she will be very much confined—she could not take you with her to—lawyers' offices. She will scarcely have any time to herself."
"What is this mysterious business, granny?"