Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. From time to time the man below would shout, and the boy would let the threads go with the snap of a harpist, only to recover them instantly. My son went down after his death. “The Widgetts,” she said. The thought did not occur to her, for all thought had flown out of her head. But there was, it insisted, no mobility in his face, no movement, nothing about him that warmed. “Think of that check you endorsed. “Does he never speak to you of—of old times?” she faltered. To-morrow I am going to Paris. ’ ‘So I infer. That’s— that’s my private life. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year. Of course, if at any time—see reason—alter your opinion.
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