“Then your own mother’s not alive?” I asked. I had asked the same question once at Stonebridge House, I remembered, and then he had almost resented it.
“No, she died when Mary was born, fourteen years ago. I cannot remember her at all.”
“Just like me,” I said. “I never saw my mother that I know of. I say, Jack, let’s look at that portrait again.”
He was delighted to show it to me, and I was glad once more to get a glimpse of that merry face.
“And your father,” I inquired, presently, “is he dead too?”
“No!” said Jack, with a sudden return of his old abruptness.
I was perplexed, but it was no use, evidently, pumping my friend with further questions in that direction. So we proceeded to undress in silence, and were soon in bed.
Presently the other lodgers came up, and then there was no chance of renewing our talk, even if Jack had been so inclined. But he seemed evidently in no humour for pursuing it.
In due time all was quiet once more, and then, just as I was beginning to feel drowsy, and was lying half awake, half asleep, fancying myself back again at Stonebridge House in the old dormitory, I felt a hand on my arm and heard Jack’s voice whisper, “Fred, are you asleep?”
“No,” I replied, moving over to make room for him as he slipped in beside me.