“Yes,” she replied. “I’m going to take a holiday.” It was then that I sat down. “Take a holiday?” I asked. “Yes, a holiday,” she said. “Don’t you think it’s time?” “But, my dear mother,” I said, “what do you want a holiday for?” “Why, just to see,” she replied, “what it’s like.” I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. “But, my dear mother,” I said, “I can’t consent to that.” She folded her hands, not very agreeably. “Then I’m afraid,” she said, “that I shall have to go without.” I looked at her. “Go without?” I asked. “But you can’t. You haven’t any money.” She smiled a little. “Oh, yes, I have,” she said. “Quite sufficient for my purpose.” I bent forward for a moment, struggling for breath. “Sufficient for your purpose?” I asked. “But where did you get it?” “Oh, I’ve always saved a bit,” she said, “and taken good advice, and I bought an annuity yesterday morning.” “An annuity?” I repeated. “You’ve saved enough for that?” “Yes, and a little more,” she said, “to play about with.” “But, my dear mother,” I said, “what did you save it out of?” “Out of my housekeeping money,” she said. “I made it rather a hobby.” I rose to my feet again. “Then what it amounts to,” I said, “is that you’ve been robbing my poor father.” “I think not,” she said, “though you can consult Mr. Balfour Whey, of course. But you must remember that I’ve had no wages.” “Wages?” I cried. “But you weren’t a servant.” “No, that’s true,” she said. “I was only a wife.” “And a mother,” I reminded her. “You seem to forget that.” “Not at all,” she replied. “I remember it distinctly.” I looked at her sternly. “Then am I to understand,” I asked, “that you entirely refuse to accept my offer?” “Yes, I’m afraid so,” she said. “I’m going to Paris, and then to a little place on the Riviera.” I resumed my seat rather heavily. “To Paris?” I said. “But you don’t know the language.” “_Pas trop_,” she said, “_mais ça suffit_. And besides, I shall be staying with Emily Smith.” Totally unmanned, I wiped my forehead. “But I thought she was in service,” I said, “in Aberdeen.” My mother smiled again. “Oh, no,” she replied. “She’s running an hotel near Bordighera.” Then, as the room rocked, I clutched at the arms of my chair. “I’m feeling unwell,” I said. “I’m going to be sick.” “Yes, I was afraid,” said my mother, “that you might be. You oughtn’t to have eaten quite so much dinner.” Thus with a heartlessness only the more incredible in view of the atmosphere with which she had been surrounded, my mother withdrew from her son’s life, needless to say never to re-enter it; and we were consequently obliged to procure a professional cook at a not inconsiderable monthly wage.