"Nonsense, Henry. Of late I see but little of you; and when I do see you, you are full of mysteries, only fit for sempstresses in penny parts. You ought not to treat me as if I wanted to be roused into interest in your affairs by secrets and surprises."
She patted her foot impatiently on the floor, and looked with vivacious reproach in his face.
He placed his hand gently but impressively on her shoulder, and said, looking down calmly from his large blue frank eyes into her swift bright gray eyes:
"I am not, mother, practising any art upon you; I am practising a great art upon myself."
She now saw something serious was coming or was in his mind; and while she did not allow her courage to decline, or the resolution of her look to diminish, she asked simply,
"And what is that art, Henry?"
"That of enduring the company of a villain in the presence of the person I most respect on earth."
She looked round the room hastily.
"He can't mean this place," she thought, "for we are alone." Raising impatient eyes to his, she said, "I am listening. Who is this villain?"
"Your son."