“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.