BOOK IV WHAT LIFE IS - CHAPTER III TOWARDS HOTEL LIFE - PART V

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_ Sophia sat waiting on the sofa in the parlour. It appeared to her
that, though little more than a month had elapsed since her
arrival in Bursley, she had already acquired a new set of
interests and anxieties. Paris and her life there had receded in
the strangest way. Sometimes for hours she would absolutely forget
Paris. Thoughts of Paris were disconcerting; for either Paris or
Bursley must surely be unreal! As she sat waiting on the sofa
Paris kept coming into her mind. Certainly it was astonishing that
she should be just as preoccupied with her schemes for the welfare
of Constance as she had ever been preoccupied with schemes for the
improvement of the Pension Frensham. She said to herself: "My life
has been so queer--and yet every part of it separately seemed
ordinary enough--how will it end?"

Then there were footfalls on the steps outside, and a key was put
into the door, which she at once opened.

"Oh!" exclaimed Cyril, startled, and also somewhat out of
countenance. "You're still up! Thanks." He came in, smoking the
end of a cigar. "Fancy having to cart that about!" he murmured,
holding up the great old-fashioned key before inserting it in the
lock on the inside.

"I stayed up," said Sophia, "because I wanted to talk to you about
your mother, and it's so difficult to get a chance."

Cyril smiled, not without self-consciousness, and dropped into his
mother's rocking-chair, which he had twisted round with his feet
to face the sofa.

"Yes," he said. "I was wondering what was the real meaning of your
telegram. What was it?" He blew out a lot of smoke and waited for
her reply.

"I thought you ought to come down," said Sophia, cheerfully but
firmly. "It was a fearful disappointment to your mother that you
didn't come yesterday. And when she's expecting a letter from you
and it doesn't come, it makes her ill."

"Oh, well!" he said. "I'm glad it's no worse. I thought from your
telegram there was something seriously wrong. And then when you
told me not to mention it--when I came in ...!"

She saw that he failed to realize the situation, and she lifted
her head challengingly.

"You neglect your mother, young man," she said.

"Oh, come now, auntie!" he answered quite gently. "You mustn't
talk like that. I write to her every week. I've never missed a
week. I come down as often as----"

"You miss the Sunday sometimes," Sophia interrupted him.

"Perhaps," he said doubtfully. "But what---"

"Don't you understand that she simply lives for your letters? And
if one doesn't come, she's very upset indeed--can't eat! And it
brings on her sciatica, and I don't know what!"

He was taken aback by her boldness, her directness.

"But how silly of her! A fellow can't always----"

"It may be silly. But there it is. You can't alter her. And, after
all, what would it cost you to be more attentive, even to write to
her twice a week? You aren't going to tell me you're so busy as
all that! I know a great deal more about young men than your
mother does." She smiled like an aunt.

He answered her smile sheepishly.

"If you'll only put yourself in your mother's place ...!"

"I expect you're quite right," he said at length. "And I'm much
obliged to you for telling me. How was I to know?" He threw the
end of the cigar, with a large sweeping gesture, into the fire.

"Well, anyhow, you know now!" she said curtly; and she thought:
"You OUGHT to have known. It was your business to know." But she
was pleased with the way in which he had accepted her criticism,
and the gesture with which he threw away the cigar-end struck her
as very distinguished.

"That's all right!" he said dreamily, as if to say: "That's done
with." And he rose.

Sophia, however, did not stir.

"Your mother's health is not what it ought to be," she went on,
and gave him a full account of her conversation with the doctor.

"Really!" Cyril murmured, leaning on the mantel-piece with his
elbow and looking down at her. "Stirling said that, did he? I
should have thought she would have been better where she is, in
the Square."

"Why better in the Square?"

"Oh, I don't know!"

"Neither do I!"

"She's always been here."

"Yes." said Sophia, "she's been here a great deal too long."

"What do YOU suggest?" Cyril asked, with impatience in his voice
against this new anxiety that was being thrust upon him.

"Well," said Sophia, "what should you say to her coming to London
and living with you?"

Cyril started back. Sophia could see that he was genuinely
shocked. "I don't think that would do at all," he said.

"Why?"

"Oh! I don't think it would. London wouldn't suit her. She's not
that sort of woman. I really thought she was quite all right down
here. She wouldn't like London." He shook his head, looking up at
the gas; his eyes had a dangerous glare.

"But supposing she said she did?"

"Look here," Cyril began in a new and brighter tone. "Why don't
you and she keep house together somewhere? That would be the very-
--"

He turned his head sharply. There was a noise on the staircase,
and the staircase door opened with its eternal creak.

"Yes," said Sophia. "The Champs Elysees begins at the Place de la
Concorde, and ends----. Is that you, Constance?"

The figure of Constance filled the doorway. Her face was troubled.
She had heard Cyril in the street, and had come down to see why he
remained so long in the parlour. She was astounded to find Sophia
with him. There they were, as intimate as cronies, chattering
about Paris! Undoubtedly she was jealous! Never did Cyril talk
like that to her!

"I thought you were in bed and asleep, Sophia," she said weakly.
"It's nearly one o'clock."

"No," said Sophia. "I didn't seem to feel like going to bed; and
then Cyril happened to come in."

But neither she nor Cyril could look innocent. And Constance
glanced from one to the other apprehensively.

The next morning Cyril received a letter which, he said--with no
further explanation--forced him to leave at once. He intimated
that there had been danger in his coming just then, and that
matters had turned out as he had feared.

"You think over what I said," he whispered to Sophia when they
were alone for an instant, "and let me know." _

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