He looked up, seeing, in the light of a bedroom-candle held aloft in a fragile hand, a feminine form enveloped in a cloud of lace, which was caught together by ribbons of the palest green satin. From under a nightcap of charming design several ringlets the colour of ripe corn had been allowed to escape. The gentleman on the stairs said appreciatively: “What a fetching cap, love!”

The vision thus addressed heaved a sigh of relief, but said, with a gurgle of laughter: “You absurd boy! Oh, Evelyn, I’m so thankful you’ve come, but what in the world has detained you? I’ve been sick with apprehension!”

There was a quizzical gleam in the gentleman’s eyes, but he said in accents of deep reproach: “Come, come, Mama—!”

“It may be very well for you to say Come, come, Mama,” she retorted, “but when you faithfully promised to return not a day later than—” She broke off, staring down at him in sudden doubt.

Abandoning the portmanteau, the gentleman shrugged the greatcoat from his shoulder, pulled off his hat, and mounted the remaining stairs two at a time, saying still more reproachfully: “No, really, Mama! How can you be so unnatural a parent?”

“Kit!” uttered his unnatural parent, in a smothered shriek. “Oh, my darling, my dearest son!”

Mr Fancot, receiving his widowed mama on his bosom, caught her in a comprehensive hug, but said, on a note of laughter: “Oh, what a rapper! I’m not your dearest son!”

Standing on tiptoe to kiss his lean cheek, and dropping wax from her tilted candle down the sleeve of his coat, Lady Denville replied with dignity that she had never felt the smallest preference for either of her twin sons.