“Did you say Cartwright—Mr. Cartwright, dear?”
“Yes, mother. Do you know him?”
“I don’t think I have met the name.”
When Mr. Cartwright’s postcard arrived, and the maid put it by the side of my plate, my mother, glancing down the table before opening her own letters, asked quickly from whom it had come, and when I told her she contradicted me, quoting, rather excitedly, the usual Biblical and historical cases where severe punishment had been given for the telling of lies, or commendation awarded for the statement of exact truth. I ventured to repeat the information, and passed the card to her as a document in support; she looked at it, cried a little, and asked me to forgive her for being so cross. I begged her not to mention it.
“Just for the moment,” she explained, “it took me back about twelve years.”
“Before my time, mother?”
“Yes. You were not thought of then. Does your friend sign himself Cartwright?”
“My dear mother, how else could he sign himself?”
“Send him another line, and say that your mother is looking forward to the pleasure of making his acquaintance.”
“You must tell me how to spell some of the words,” I said.