Her fears immediately allayed, she allowed herself to be kissed.
“Now we shall go and see your father.”
“Very well,” said Quentin reluctantly.
They left the bedroom, and at the end of the corridor, found themselves in a room in whose doorway swung a black screen with a glass panel.
“We’ll wait a moment. He must have gone into the store,” said his mother, as she seated herself upon the sofa.
Quentin absently examined the furnishings of the office: the large writing-desk full of little drawers; the safe with its gilt knobs; the books and letter-press lying upon a table near the window. Upon the wall opposite the screen hung two large, mud-coloured lithographs of Vesuvius in eruption. Between them was a large, hexagonal clock, and below it, a “perpetual” calendar of black cardboard, with three elliptic apertures set one above the other—the upper one for the date, the middle one for the month, and the lower one for the year.
Mother and son waited a moment, while the clock measured the time with a harsh tick-tock. Suddenly the screen opened, and a man entered the office. He was clean-shaven, elegantly dressed, with a full, pink face, and an aristocratic air.
“Here is Quentin,” said his mother.
“Hello!” exclaimed the man, holding out his hand to the youth. “So you have arrived without notifying us in advance? How goes it in England?”
“Very well.”