And he slammed the door on himself. "On Sunday evenin'," said his son, imperturbably, as if there had been no interruption, "eight-thirty to eleven, at his residence, High Street, Wandsworth, Mr. Fulleymore Ransome will give an Entertainment. Humorous Impersonations: Mr. F. Ransome. Step Dancin': Mr. F. Ransome. Ladies are requested to remove their hats. Song: _Put Me Among the Girls_, Mr. F. Ransome--" "For shame, Ranny," said his mother, behind her pocket handkerchief. "--There will be a short interval for refreshment, when festivities will conclude with a performance on the French Horn: Mr. F. Ransome." His mother laughed as she always did (relieved that he could take it that way); but this time, through all her laughter, he could see that there was something wrong. And in the evening, when he had returned from seeing Booty home, she told him what it was. They were alone together in the front parlor. "Ranny," she said, suddenly; "if I were you I wouldn't bring strangers in for a bit while your father's sufferin' as he is." "Oh, I say, Mother--" Ranny was disconcerted, for he had been going to ask her if he might bring Winny Dymond in some day. "Well," she said, "it isn't as if He was one that could get away by Himself, like. He's always in and out." "Yes. The old Hedgehog scuttles about pretty ubiquitous, don't he?" That was all he said. But though he took it like that, he knew his mother's heart; he knew what it had cost her to give him that pitiful hint. He was balancing himself on the arm of her chair now, and hanging over her like a lover. He had always been more like a lover to her than a son. Mr. Ransome's transports (if he could be said to have transports) of affection were violent, with long intermissions and most brief. Ranny had ways, soft words, cajoleries, caresses that charmed her in her secret desolation. Balancing himself on the arm of her chair, he had his face hidden in the nape of her neck, where he affected ecstasy and the sniffing in of fragrance, as if his mother were a flower. "What do you _do_?" said Ranny. "Do you bury yourself in violets all night, or what?" "Violets indeed! Get along with you!" "Violets aren't in it with your neck, Mother--nor roses neither. What did God Almighty think he was making when he made you?" "Don't you dare to speak so," said his mother, smiling secretly. "Lord bless you! _He_ don't mind," said Ranny. "He's not like Par." And he plunged into her neck again and burrowed there. "Ranny, if you knew how you worried me, you wouldn't do it. You reelly wouldn't. I don't know what'll come to you, goin' on so reckless." "It's because I love you," said Ranny, half stifled with his burrowing. "You fair drive me mad. I could eat you, Mother, and thrive on it." "Get along with you! There! You're spoiling all my Sunday lace." Ranny emerged, and his mother looked at him. "Such a sight as you are. If you could see yourself," she said.