They had been sitting there some time, he with his hands folded on the evening paper and with his eyes closed, when the servant brought in a card and offered it to Mr. Catherwaight. Mr. Catherwaight fumbled over his glasses, and read the name on the card aloud: “'Mr. Lewis L. Lockwood.' Dear me!” he said; “what can Mr. Lockwood be calling upon me about?”
Miss Catherwaight sat upright, and reached out for the card with a nervous, gasping little laugh.
“Oh, I think it must be for me,” she said; “I'm quite sure it is intended for me. I was at his office to-day, you see, to return him some keepsake of his that I found in an old curiosity shop. Something with his name on it that had been stolen from him and pawned. It was just a trifle. You needn't go down, dear; I'll see him. It was I he asked for, I'm sure; was it not, Morris?”
Morris was not quite sure; being such an old gentleman, he thought it must be for Mr. Catherwaight he'd come.
Mr. Catherwaight was not greatly interested. He did not like to disturb his after-dinner nap, and he settled back in his chair again and refolded his hands.
“I hardly thought he could have come to see me,” he murmured, drowsily; “though I used to see enough and more than enough of Lewis Lockwood once, my dear,” he added with a smile, as he opened his eyes and nodded before he shut them again. “That was before your mother and I were engaged, and people did say that young Lockwood's chances at that time were as good as mine. But they weren't, it seems. He was very attentive, though; very attentive.”
Miss Catherwaight stood startled and motionless at the door from which she had turned.
“Attentive—to whom?” she asked quickly, and in a very low voice. “To my mother?”
Mr. Catherwaight did not deign to open his eyes this time, but moved his head uneasily as if he wished to be let alone.
“To your mother, of course, my child,” he answered; “of whom else was I speaking?”