“‘A mother with a warning voice?’ I added, beginning to find my soundings.
“‘A mother with a voice soft as a zephyr!’
“‘No, with a voice of warning.’
“Up to this time he had been watching me somewhat with the expression of a child when some one is about to touch the spring of a Jack-in-the-Box. Up I was going to bounce, in some high antic or other. But just here his countenance took on a look of perplexity. I suppose my voice became one of warning. Can’t I talk seriously sometimes, Mr. Frobisher?”
“You? Oh, Lord!”
“Well, you needn’t be so emphatic. What will Jack think?”
“Pshaw! Who minds Jack? Ouch!”
“Well, where was I? Ah! ‘No, with a voice of warning,’ said I, looking rather grave, I suppose. ‘Very well,’ said he, ‘with a voice of warning.’ ‘I am your mother, then?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And you are my son?’ ‘Yes, mumma,’ said he, smiling, and holding up his knee with interlaced fingers and looking very comfortable.
“‘My son,’ said I, with perfect gravity, and feeling very uncomfortable. ‘My dear child, I need not tell you that I feel all a mother’s affection for you. I have given you so many proofs of this ever since I trotted you on my foot, a wee thing,—you, not the foot,—that I do not feel called upon to add any more evidence of the love I bear you.’ ‘Darling mumpsy!’ said he. You may look incredulous, but he said it. ‘But no one is perfect,’—he nodded; ‘then you will not be surprised to hear that your loving mother sees in you, mingled with many excellencies that make her proud, some faults,—one fault at least? You will not feel hurt? Consider your head patted.’ And I began again poking holes in the sand. ‘What is my crime? Speak, mother dear?’ ‘You are a handsome young man.’ ‘Ah, but how could I help that, with such a lovely little mother?’ ‘No frivolity, my child; no bandying compliments with your old mother. No matter whence your good looks are derived, you are devastatingly handsome—’”
“How could you say such a thing to a man’s face, Alice?”