table is a place for food, not fiddle-faddle!"

Blair reddened sharply. "There are people," he began, in that
voice of restrained irritation which is veiled by sarcastic
politeness--"there are people, my dear mother, who think of
something else than filling their stomachs." Mrs. Maitland's eye
had left the dinner table, and was raking her son from head to
foot. He was very handsome, this sixteen-year-old boy, standing
tall and graceful in his new clothes, which, indeed, he wore
easily, in spite of his excitement at their newness.

"Well!" she said, sweeping him with a glance. Her face glowed; "I
wish his father could have lived to see him," she thought; she
put out her hand and touched his shoulder. "Turn round here till
I look at you! Well, well! I suppose you're enjoying those togs
you've got on?" Her voice was suddenly raucous with pride; if she
had known how, she would have kissed him. Instead she said, with
loud cheerfulness: "Well, my son, which is the head of the table?
Where am I to sit?"

"_Mother!_" Blair said. He turned quite white. He went over
to the improvised serving-table, and picked up a fork with a
trembling hand; put it down again, and turned to look at her.
Yes; she was all dressed up! He groaned under his breath. The
tears actually stood in his eyes. "I thought," he said, and
stopped to clear his voice, "I didn't know--"

"What's the matter with you?" Mrs. Maitland asked, looking at him
over her spectacles.