"Two years last February," said Jane, eagerly.
"Two years; yes. He's my namesake, Mary, did you know? Where is the young lion?"
"Why, yes, mother. Why isn't Richard down? Morning nap? Hoot, toot! bring the boy down!"
Miss Defourchet, while Jane went for the boy, noticed how heavy the scent of the syringas grew, how the bees droned down into a luxurious delight in the hot noon. One might dream out life very pleasantly there, she thought. The two men talked politics, but glanced constantly at the stairs. She did not wonder that Starke's worn, yellow face should grow so curiously bright at the sight of his boy; but her uncle did not care for children,—unless, indeed, there was something in them. Jane came down and put the boy on the floor.
"He has pulled all my hair down," she said, trying to look grave, to hide the proud smile in her face.
Miss Defourchet had taken Richard up with an involuntary kiss, which he resisted, looking her full in the face. There was something in this child.
"He won't kiss you, unless he likes you," said Starke, chafing his hands delightedly.
"What do you think of that fellow, Mary?" said the Doctor, coming over. "He's my young lion, Richard is. Look at this square forehead. You don't believe in Phrenology, eh? Well, I do. Feel his jaws. Look at that lady, Sir! Do you see the big, brave eyes of him?"
"His mouth is like his mother's," said Starke, jealously.
"Oh, yes, yes! So. You think that is the best part of his face, I know. It is; as tender as a woman's."