"As I told you, Mrs. Le Marchant turned me away from their door," pursues Byng. "It struck me—I could not pay much attention to the fact, for was not I bidding her good-night—taking farewell of those heavenly eyes?—did you ever see such astonishing eyes?—for four colossal hours—but it struck me that her mother's manner was a little colder to me than it usually is. It had been a little cold all day—at least, so I fancied. Had the same idea occurred to you?"
Burgoyne hesitates.
"But even if it were so," continues Byng, his sun breaking out again in full brilliancy from the very little cloud that, during his last sentence or two, had dimmed its lustre, "how can I blame her? Does one throw one's self into the arms of the burglar who has broken open one's safe and stolen one's diamonds?"
Burgoyne still hesitates. Shall he tell the young ranter before him what excellent reasons he has for knowing that any filial disposition on his part to throw himself on Mrs. Le Marchant's neck will be met by a very distinct resistance on that lady's part, or shall he leave him poised on
"The jag
Of his mountain crag"
till morning? The morning light will certainly see him tumbling at the least some few kilometres down. He decides generously to leave him in present possession of his peak; but yet, so inconsistent is human nature, his next speech can have no drift but that of giving a slight jog to his friend's towering confidence.
"And your own mother?"
It may generally be concluded that a person has not a very pertinent response to give to a question if his only answer to that question be to repeat it in the same words.
"My own mother?"
"Yes; you will write at once to tell her, I suppose?"