Simon's father, who was leaning against the mantelpiece smoking.
"Why the devil," she was saying, "should you smoke expensive cigars? Why don't you smoke cigarettes as I do?"
She angrily puffed at one as she spoke, and threw herself back among the black and gold cushions of the divan, where she was sitting. Her fair brow cleared, however, as her glance rested on The Seraph.
"Adorable little toad!" she cried, drawing him to her side. "What is your name?"
"Alexander," replied our youngest, "but they call me The Seraph. I'm not a pampud pet."
This sent the lady into a gale of laughter. She hugged him closer and turned to me.
"And what is your name, Sobersides?" she demanded.
"John," I replied, "and my father is David Curzon, and he is an engineer in South America, but he's coming back to England some day, and, I expect then we shall go to school. We just live with Mrs. Handsomebody."
As I talked, her expression changed. She leaned forward, searching my face eagerly.
"Is it possible?" she said, in a tragic voice. "Is it possible? David Curzon. His son. The very spit of him!" Abruptly she broke
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