Instead of entering the drawing-room after Dermott's departure, Frank
turned with some abruptness toward Mrs. Ravenel.

"I am going for a walk, mother," he said, with no suggestion that she
accompany him; and her intimate acquaintance with Francis, sixth of the
name, made her understand with some accuracy the moods of his son,
Francis seventh.

"You are handsomer than ever, Frank!" she exclaimed, as if in answer to
the suggestion.

"You spoil me, mother," he returned, with a smile.

"Women have always done that--" she began.

"And you more than any other," Frank broke in, kissing her, with a
deference of manner singularly his own.

"There may be truth in that," Mrs. Ravenel admitted, a fine sense of
humor marked by the grudging tone in which she spoke. "I remember that
only yesterday I was in a rage because the roses were not further open
to welcome you home."

"Nature _is_ unappreciative," he returned; and the gray eyes with the
level lids looked into the blue ones with the level lids, and both
laughed.

For a space Mrs. Ravenel contemplated him, the ecstasy of motherhood
illuminating the glance.