His gray eyes were closed, his persimmon-colored lips open and panting. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. “And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. ’” “Yes?” “I think—yes, I went on in a pleasing blend of the casual and sotto voce, ‘The fact of it is, sir, I happen to be your son-in-law, Capes. Fine woman, Lady Trafford—a little on the wane though. The colouring was green and white, with softly shaded electric lights, an alcove bedstead, which was a miracle of daintiness, white furniture, and a long low dressing-table littered all over with a multitude of daintily fashioned toilet appliances. The day was sunny and pleasant, devoid of chill winds. He relayed many details of the location and the beautiful rivers of her home, a subject she never tired of. Mother and Son.
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