“‘My son,’ said I, with perfect gravity, and feeling very _un_comfortable. ‘My dear child, I need not tell you that I feel all a mother’s affection for you. I have given you so many proofs of this ever since I trotted you on my foot, a wee thing,—you, not the foot,—that I do not feel called upon to add any more evidence of the love I bear you.’ ‘Darling mumpsy!’ said he. You may look incredulous, but he said it. ‘But no one is perfect,’—he nodded; ‘then you will not be surprised to hear that your loving mother sees in you, mingled with many excellencies that make her proud, some faults,—one fault at least? You will not feel hurt? Consider your head patted.’ And I began again poking holes in the sand. ‘What is my crime? Speak, mother dear?’ ‘You are a handsome young man.’ ‘Ah, but how could I help that, with such a lovely little mother?’ ‘No frivolity, my child; no bandying compliments with your old mother. No matter whence your good looks are derived, you are _devastatingly_ handsome—’” “How could you say such a thing to a man’s face, Alice?” “To put him in good humor. You are all vain, you know. “Upon that he threw back his head and gave a shout of laughter. ‘Go on,’ said he, lolling back and nursing his knee as before. ‘No,’ said I, ‘the fatal gift of beauty is not a crime in itself; it is the use one—’ “‘Do you know,’ said he, interrupting me and leaning forward with deep conviction in his eyes, ‘that you are the most extraordinary girl—I mean mother—that I ever encountered? You ought to write; it is your positive duty. So much brightness—tit for tat, you know—ought not to waste its sweetness, etc. Have you never thought of writing a book?’ ‘Not I,—Mary Rolfe is our genius; I leave that to her.’ “His face flushed slightly, and instantly I changed my whole plan of campaign. I had been making a reconnoissance under cover of the mother and son fiction; but like a wide-awake general, I now, seeing the enemy in confusion, unmasked my batteries and opened fire; that is, I dropped my parasol and sprang towards him with an anxious look: ‘Are you ill?’ I asked. “His face grew crimson, for he knew what I meant. You see he had once or twice heard me making fun of a certain threadbare trick of the novelists. It would seem that characters in romances never have the least idea that any one is in love with any one. One party casually mentions to a second party the name of a third party. Instantly party No. 2 changes color. ‘Are you ill?’ cries No. 1. ‘It is nothing,’ gasps No. 2; ‘it will pass in a moment.’” “Yes,” said Charley, “and how singular it is that No. 1 never for a moment suspects the truth, but invariably goes off under the conviction that the poor heroine has eaten something indigestible,—has a pain—nay, even—who minds Jack?—an ache!” “How shrewd a device!” said Alice, laughing. “The author lets the reader know, while concealing it from the actors in the drama, that the poor girl is desperately gone.”