"Yes, but mine is a most disheartening story," declared Sir Simon, "and nearly succeeded in alienating me from all my friends; and as for Mum, I dare not so much as mention Lal's name to her for fear of having my nose snapped off; she never did and never will believe in him, declares that the whole thing is a preposterous lot of nonsense, and declines even to discuss the subject with me at all. You know, my dear boy, that Mum is very sensible upon other points, but about Lal she is openly scornful and secretly adamantine; in fact, the mere mention of Lal is like poison to her, and he was entirely responsible for the only difference we have ever had in our married lives."
"Light a cigar, Dad, before you start; and what will you have by way of a drink?"
The Writer had opened other compartments in the mysterious old oak cabinet that seemed to possess more doors than a Chinese temple.
"These Coronas I remembered you used to smoke, so I got some."
"Excellent," declared Sir Simon, "and, let me see, why, bless me what a lot of bottles you have there. I hope you don't drink them all. Some of that green stuff, my dear boy, if you please, Crème-de-Menthe; yes, I think a couple of liqueurs of that would be most beneficial to me after the most indigestible banquet we all partook of at the Mansion House to-day. The stuff is largely made up of peppermint, I'm sure; and, of course, peppermint, when it is tastily got up like this liqueur, is very good for indigestion, isn't it?"
The Writer lighted the old gentleman's cigar, and placing the
Crème-de-Menthe upon the table, filled a tiny liqueur glass to the brim.
"Of course," commenced Sir Simon, "from the very first nothing would induce Mum to believe that the Pleasant-Faced Lion, our old friend Lal, ever had anything to do with my life, or ever influenced me in any way. You know, my boy, it is one of women's weaknesses to invariably believe that they do more than they really do. She declared that everything in my life was owing to your influence and to hers."
"Mine?" asked the Writer in astonishment.
"So Mum always insisted, and so she always undoubtedly believed, and when the time came that you ran away,—yes, you dog, for you did run away, don't deny it,—well, what with sorrow for the loss of you, and trouble with your mother, for she declared I had driven you from home by not encouraging you to write, and women are most illogical and unreasonable when they once get a fixed idea into their heads,—well, between one and the other of you I had a very bad time. The fact remained that you were gone, never gave us any address, and I got all the blame for it. But the thing that annoyed Mum more than anything else was my everlasting habit of going to the Pantomimes."
The Writer laughed. "Well, I never knew before, Dad, that Pantomimes were a special weakness of yours."