At length Mrs. Ritson's anxiety overcame the restraint of her manner.
"Mr. Bonnithorne," she said, "do let the will be made to-night. Urge Mr. Ritson, when he returns, to admit of no further delay. He has many noble qualities, but procrastination is his fault. It has been ever so."
Mr. Bonnithorne paused with a glass half raised to his lips, and lifted his eyes instead.
"Pardon me, madame," he said, with the customary smile which failed to disarm his words; "this is for certain reasons a subject I can hardly discuss with—with—- with a woman."
And just then a peacock strutted through the court-yard, startling the still air with its empty scream.
Mrs. Ritson colored deeply. Even modesty like hers had been put to a severe strain. But she dropped her eyes again, finished a row of stitches, rested the steel needle on her lip, and answered quietly:
"Surely a woman may talk of what concerns her husband and her children."
The great man had resumed his knife and fork.
"Not necessarily," he said. "It is a strange and curious fact that there is one condition in which the law does not recognize the right of a woman to call her son her own."
During this prolonged speech, Hugh Ritson, fresh from his interview with Greta Lowther, entered the room, and stretched himself on the couch.