She did not begin the recital immediately upon taking her chair, across the hearth from her son; she led up to it.  She was an ample, fresh-coloured, lively woman; and like her son only in being a kind soul:  he got neither his mortal seriousness nor his dreaminess from her.  She was more than content with Cora’s abandonment of him, though, as chivalrousness was not demanded of her, she would have preferred that he should have been the jilt.  She thought Richard well off in his release, even at the price of all his savings.  But there was something to hope, even in that matter, Pryor wrote from Paris encouragingly:  he believed that Moliterno might be frightened or forced into at least a partial restitution; though Richard would not count upon it, and had “begun at the beginning” again, as a small-salaried clerk in a bank, trudging patiently to work in the morning and home in the evening, a long-faced, tired young man, more absent than ever, lifeless, and with no interest in anything outside his own broodings.  His mother, pleased with his misfortune in love, was of course troubled that it should cause him to suffer.  She knew she could not heal him; but she also knew that everything is healed in time, and that sometimes it is possible for people to help time a little.

Her first remark to her son, this evening, was that to the best of her memory she had never used the word “hellion.”  And, upon his saying gently, no, he thought it probable that she never had, but seeking no farther and dropping his eyes to the burning wood, apparently under the impression that the subject was closed, she informed him brusquely that it was her intention to say it now.

“What is it you want to say, mother?”

“If I can bring myself to use the word `hellion’,” she returned, “I’m going to say that of all the heaven-born, whole-souled and consistent ones I ever knew Hedrick Madison is the King.”

“In what new way?” he inquired.

“Egerton Villard.  Egerton used to be the neatest, best-mannered, best-dressed boy in town; but he looks and behaves like a Digger Indian since he’s taken to following Hedrick around.  Mrs. Villard says it’s the greatest sorrow of her life, but she’s quite powerless:  the boy is Hedrick’s slave.  The other day she sent a servant after him, and just bringing him home nearly ruined her limousine.  He was solidly covered with molasses, over his clothes and all, from head to foot, and then he’d rolled in hay and chicken feathers to be a gnu for Hedrick to kodak in the African Wilds of the Madisons’ stable.  Egerton didn’t know what a gnu was, but Hedrick told him that was the way to be one, he said.  Then, when they’d got him scraped and boiled, and most of his hair pulled out, a policemen came to arrest him for stealing the jug of molasses at a corner grocery.”

Richard nodded, and smiled faintly for comment.  They sat in silence for a while.

“I saw Mrs. Madison yesterday,” said his mother.  “She seemed very cheerful; her husband is able to talk almost perfectly again, though he doesn’t get downstairs.  Laura reads to him a great deal.”