"No wonder! He has been living wi' decent folk lately, and decency tells. Them Californians are the civilest o' mortals. You'll mind my ain lad, that was here about four years syne?"
"I'll never forget him, Mistress McNab. A perfect gentleman."
"Weel, he was, in a way, a Californian--born, of course, in Scotland, but knocked about among the Californians, until he learned how to behave himsel' to rich and poor and auld and young, and special to women and bairns."
While this conversation was going on Robert sat in the old dining-room. It was dismal enough at all times, especially so in rainy weather, and more specially so when it was summer rain, and no blazing fire brightened the dark mahogany and the crimson draperies.
His mother was at home, but he was told Christina was occupying the little villa he had bought at Inverkip. He had not been asked for its use, and it contained a good deal of Theodora's needlework, and much summer clothing. For a few minutes he was angry, but he quickly reasoned his anger away. "There are no happy memories about any of the things. It is better they should not come into our future life," he said to himself. He wondered his mother did not come, and asked Jepson if she had been told. "Yes, she had been told, and had sent word 'she would be down as soon as dressed.'"
It was an hour before she was dressed, and Robert felt the gloom and chill of waiting. Indeed, he was so uncomfortably cold, that he asked for a fire, and was standing before it enjoying its blaze and warmth when Mrs. Campbell entered.
"Good gracious, Robert!" she cried, "a fire in August! I never heard tell of such a thing."
"I am just from a warm, sunny country, mother, and I have also been ill, and so I feel the cold."
"Well, well! Put a screen between me and the blaze. I am not auld enou' yet, to require a blaze in August."
"To-morrow, it will be the first of September. How are you, mother?"
"Fine. That foolish fellow you left over the works came here--came special, mind ye--to tell me you were vera ill. He said he had received a letter from a Dr. Stuart, living in a place called Denver, saying you were at Death's door, or words to that effect; but I sent him back to his proper business wi' a solid rebuke for leaving it. I'm not the woman to thank any one for bringing me bad news--lies, too, very likely."