Charles, quite serious and earnest, planted himself in full view of the group of us.
“Look here,” he said “—all of you. I wish to talk to you about mother’s biography.”
“Yes, indeed,” responded Mrs. Bradford, settling heavily into a chair, “we ought to consider the matter at once. It was largely on account of it that Henry and I took the time to come here to-night.” She assumed her most business-like expression.
“There’s really nothing more to consider,” went on Charles, puckering his forehead. “I simply wish to tell you that I have received an excellent offer from Singleton for a work in two volumes, and have accepted it. He will give a large sum for the book—a very large sum.”
“Charles,” said Helen Bradford, severely, “how can you speak of money in such a connection? I think that you acted very unwisely in not first consulting your family. As a matter of fact, your precipitate action is very embarrassing, isn’t it, Henry?”
“You certainly should have told us that the offer had been made,” concurred Bradford, looking aggrieved. “It does complicate things.”
“I can’t see why,” said Charles, with a sudden burst of anger. “I’m mother’s executor, as well as her only son, and I surely have the right to make my own arrangements about her biography. I thought at first that some one outside the family ought to write it, but I’ve been shown quite clearly that it is my duty to do it.”
Mrs. Bradford’s firm jaw dropped a little.
“You do it!” she cried. “I’ve decided that it will be most suitable for me to write it myself. In point of fact, Henry has already made satisfactory arrangements for me with Banister. So you see—”
“I see,” said Charles, impatiently, “that you and Henry have been meddling in the most unwarrantable fashion, quite as usual. You’ll have to get out of it with Banister the best way you can, that’s all.”