THE AWKWARD AGE
bunch of keys suspended in the lock of the secretary, of which, as she said these words, Mrs. Brookenham took possession. Her air on observing them had promptly become that of having been in search of them, and a moment after she had passed across the room they were in her pocket. "If you don't go, what excuse will you give?"
"Do you mean to you, mummy?"
She stood before him, and now she dismally looked at him. "What's the matter with you? What an extraordinary time to take a nap!"
He had fallen back in the chair, from the depths of which he met her eyes. "Why, it's just the time, mummy. I did it on purpose. I can always go to sleep when I like. I assure you it sees one through things!"
She turned away with impatience and, glancing about the room, perceived on a small table of the same type as the secretary a somewhat massive book with the label of a circulating library, which she proceeded to pick up as for refuge from the impression made on her by the boy. He watched her do this and watched her then slightly pause at the wide window that, in Buckingham Crescent, commanded the prospect they had ramified rearward to enjoy; a medley of smoky brick and spotty stucco, of other undressed backs, of glass invidiously opaque, of roofs and chimney-pots and stables unnaturally near—one of the private pictures that in London, in select situations, run up, as the phrase is, the rent. There was no indication of value now, however, in the character conferred on the scene by a cold spring rain. The place had, moreover, a confessed out-of-season vacancy. She appeared to have determined on silence for the present mark of her relation with Harold, yet she soon failed to resist a sufficiently poor reason for breaking it. "Be so good as to get out of my chair."
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