she went by.
“Don’t!” shouted Richard, angrily, and then in an undertone muttered something about “confounded childishness,” while Eve bent over her aunt and whispered softly —
“He’ll be better when he has had some tea, aunt dear. He’s upset with thinking about to-day.”
Mrs Glaire nodded, and watched the pretty, graceful form as Eve tripped back, to stand for a moment or two behind Richard’s chair, resting her hands upon his shoulders as she whispered tenderly —
“Does your face hurt you, Dick dear?”
“Bother!” growled Dick, pouring the cup of tea to which he had helped himself down his throat. “Here, fill this.”
Eve took the cup and saucer, only smiling back at him, and refilling it, said playfully —
“Dick’s cross, aunty. I’m going to give him double allowance of sugar to sweeten his temper.”
“I wish you’d pour out the tea, and not chatter so,” he cried, impatiently. “What with your tongue and hers, there isn’t a bit of peace to be had in the place.”
Eve looked pained, but the look passed off, and without attending to her own wants, she took some bread and butter across to where Richard sat scowling at the wall.
“Won’t you have something to eat, Dick dear?” she said, affectionately.
“NO!”
There are a good many ways of saying “no.” This was one of the most decisive, and was uttered so sharply that Eve forbore to press that which she had brought upon her cousin, and carried it to her aunt.
The rest of the time before retiring was passed in about as agreeable a way, till, at a nod from Mrs Glaire, Eve said, “Good night,” being affectionately embraced by her aunt, and then turning to Dick, she bent over him.
“Good night, dear Dick,” she whispered, holding her cheek to be kissed, as she rested her hands upon his shoulders.
“There, good night. For goodness’ sake don’t paw one about so.”
Eve remained motionless, with the tears gathering in her eyes, for a few moments, before bending down and kissing the young man’s forehead.
“Good night, dear darling Dick,” she whispered. “I’m very sorry about all your troubles; but don’t speak like that, it – it hurts me.”
The next moment she had taken up her candlestick and glided from the room.
Richard Glaire gave himself an impatient twist in his chair, and lay back thinking of the warm, glowing beauties of Daisy Banks, when he started up in affright, so silently had his mother risen from her couch, advanced, laid her hands upon his shoulder, one crossed over the other, and said in a low, clear voice —
“Dick, you are thinking of Daisy Banks.”
“I – I thought you were asleep.” he stammered.
“I was never more wide awake, Richard – to your interests,” said Mrs Glaire.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said, petulantly, as he gave the lamp-shade a twist, so that its light should not fall upon his face, and then changed his position a little.
“Yes, you do, Richard – perfectly,” said Mrs Glaire. “I said just now that you were thinking of Daisy Banks.”
“Yes, I heard you say so; and I said, I don’t know what you mean.”
An angry retort was upon Mrs Glaire’s lips, but she checked the hasty expression, and pressing her hands a little more firmly upon her son’s shoulders, she went on —
“You know perfectly well what I mean Richard, and I must speak to you about that, as well as about the business.”
“Look here,” exclaimed the young man, impatiently; “I’m tired and worried enough for one day. I’m going to bed.”
He started up, crossed to the side table, took a candle, and advancing to the lamp, was about to light it with a taper, when, to his surprise, his mother, who of late years had given up to him in everything, took candle and taper from his hands and pressed him back unresisting into his seat.
“Richard, you are not going to bed till you have heard what I have to say.”
“I tell you I’m worn out and worried!” he exclaimed.
“You were not too tired to go out and keep engagements,” said Mrs Glaire, firmly.
“Who told you I had been out to keep engagements?” retorted Richard, sharply.
“My heart, Richard,” said his mother. “I know as well as if I had seen you that you have been to-night to meet Daisy Banks.”
“What stuff, mother!”
“As you have often been to meet her, Richard; tell me, do you wish to marry her?”
“I marry that hoyden – that workman’s daughter! Mother, are you mad?”
“You are only a workman’s son, sir.”
“My father made me a gentleman, mother,” said Richard, taking out a cigarette, “and I have the tastes of a gentleman. May I light this?”
“Smoke if you wish to, Richard,” said Mrs Glaire, quietly. “I have never stood in your way when that was a just one.”
Richard lit his cigarette, threw himself back in his chair with one leg over an arm, and said negligently —
“Well, if I am to be lectured, go on.”
“I am not going to lecture you, my son,” said Mrs Glaire, firmly; “I am only interposing when I see you hesitating on the brink of a precipice.”
“Look here, mother,” cried Richard; “do you want to quarrel?”
“No, Richard, to advise.”
“Then don’t talk stuff, mother.”
“I shall not, Richard, neither shall I let you put me off in what I wish to say. I am going to speak to you about Joseph Banks’ daughter, and about the business.”
“Now, look here, mother,” cried the young man, who, with all his desire to go, felt himself pinned down in his chair by a stronger will – “look here. What stuff have you got in your head about that little girl?”
“The stuff, as you call it, that is the common talk of the town.”
“Oh, come, that’s rich,” cried Richard, with a forced laugh. “To keep me up here and scold me about the common talk of scandal-mad Dumford. Mother, I thought you had more sense.”
“And I, Richard, thought that you had more honour; that your father had brought you up as a gentleman; and that you really had the tastes of a gentleman.”
“Come, I say, this is coming it too strong, you know, mother,” said the young man, in a feeble kind of protestation. “It is too hard on a fellow: it is indeed, you
