“You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked. She would be surrendering to all her impulses—particularly the good impulses—many of which society had condemned long since because they entailed too much trouble. She waited a few minutes, then greeted the burly doorman who stood as the building’s lone sentry. She wished that the drive would never end, but it was only three miles after all. So absorbed was she by her passionate supplications that she was insensible to anything passing around her, until she felt a touch upon her shoulder, and heard a well-known voice breathe in her ear—"Mother!" She started at the sound as if an apparition had called her, screamed, and fell into her son's outstretched arms. "You who are condemned to die, repent with lamentable tears. " "You have no son," rejoined Sir Rowland, moodily. She nuzzled his chest and he breathed deeply of the scent of her Finesse conditioner.
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