"Those were his words."
"But——"
She interpreted into purer English. Geoffrey was confident that his symphony would achieve a sensational success.
"In the meanwhile," said she, "if you don't finish your partridge you'll break mother's heart."
She poured out a glass of burgundy, which the old man drank; but he refused the food.
"No, no," he said, "I cannot eat more. I have a lump there—in my throat. I am too excited. I feel that he is marching to his great triumph. My little Geoffrey." He rose, knocking his chair over, and strode about the confined space. "Sacramento! But I am a wicked old man. I was sorrowful because I was so dull, so stupid that I could not write a sonata. I blamed the good God. Mea maxima culpa. And at once he sends me a partridge in a halo of love, and the news of my dear son's glory——"
Sonia stopped him, her plump hands on the front of his old corrugated frock-coat.
"And your glory, too, dear godfather. If it hadn't been for you, where would Geoffrey be? And who realises it more than Geoffrey? Would you like to see a bit of his letter? Only a little bit—for there's a lot of rubbish in it that I would be ashamed of anybody who thinks well of him to read—but just a little bit."
Her hand was at the broad belt joining blouse and skirt. Angelo, towering above her, smiled with an old man's tenderness at the laughing love in her dark eyes, and at the happiness in her young, comely face. Her features were generous, and her mouth frankly large, but her lips were fresh and her teeth white and even, and to the old fellow she looked all that man could dream of the virginal mother-to-be of great sons. She fished the letter from her belt, scanned and folded it carefully.
"There! Read."