A gong sounded in the hall, and Mrs Darwen rose. "That's dinner," she said, "come on in."
She led the way and Carstairs followed, lost in wonder, as he contemplated a rear view of her squat, ungainly figure. At dinner she drank a stiff glass of whisky and soda. Carstairs carefully avoided looking at it; he knew Darwen was watching him closely. Both the young men were rather silent, but the old lady rattled away.
"Do you play football—rugby? Yes, you would of course! Charlie's a splendid player. I used to turn out and watch him, stood about in the damp grass and got the rheumatism thoroughly into my old bones," she laughed again, a louder, coarser laugh.
"Not so very old, I expect, Mrs Darwen," Carstairs was trying his 'prentice hand at a compliment.
She laughed aloud. "Ha, ha! Charlie'd do better than that, he can pay compliments like his father. Ah! his father was a rare hand at that game, or any other game. So's Charlie, he's a thorough sportsman. 'Always go straight, boy,' that's what I taught, 'over hedges and ditches, straight ahead.'" She gesticulated with her arms.
Carstairs felt rather embarrassed. Darwen was unusually silent, but his mother talked away and laughed and joked. After dinner they smoked a cigar apiece and Darwen seemed to wake up, but still he was serious. "From your description, mater, I imagine the guv'nor was something like Carstairs here."
"Well, yes, something."
"But dark, I suppose?" Carstairs asked, looking at Darwen's almost swarthy complexion.
"Oh, dear no! He was fair, quite as fair as you."
"Was he really?"