"No.
Barber's," Cyril shouted in answer, and waved his hand.
The horse rattled into Fulham Road.
III
Three days later Matthew Peel-Swynnerton was walking along Bursley Market Place when, just opposite the Town Hall, he met a short, fat, middle-aged lady dressed in black, with a black embroidered mantle, and a small bonnet tied with black ribbon and ornamented with jet fruit and crape leaves.
As she stepped slowly and carefully forward she had the dignified, important look of a provincial woman who has always been accustomed to deference in her native town, and whose income is ample enough to extort obsequiousness from the vulgar of all ranks.
But immediately she caught sight of Matthew, her face changed.
She became simple and naive.
She blushed slightly, smiling with a timid pleasure.
For her, Matthew belonged to a superior race.
He bore the almost sacred name of Peel.
His family had been distinguished in the district for generations.
'Peel!' You could without impropriety utter it in the same breath with
'Wedgwood.'
And
'Swynnerton' stood not much lower.
Neither her self-respect, which was great, nor her commonsense, which far exceeded the average, could enable her to extend as far as the Peels the theory that one man is as good as another.
The Peels never shopped in St. Luke's Square.
Even in its golden days the Square could not have expected such a condescension.
The Peels shopped in London or in Stafford; at a pinch, in Oldcastle.
That was the distinction for the ageing stout lady in black.
Why, she had not in six years recovered from her surprise that her son and Matthew Peel-Swynnerton treated each other rudely as equals!
She and Matthew did not often meet, but they liked each other.
Her involuntary meekness flattered him.
And his rather elaborate homage flattered her.
He admired her fundamental goodness, and her occasional raps at Cyril seemed to put him into ecstasies of joy.
"Well, Mrs. Povey," he greeted her, standing over her with his hat raised. (It was a fashion he had picked up in Paris.)
"Here I am, you see."
"You're quite a stranger, Mr. Matthew.
I needn't ask you how you are.
Have you been seeing anything of my boy lately?"
"Not since Wednesday," said Matthew.
"Of course he's written to you?"
"There's no 'of course' about it," she laughed faintly.
"I had a short letter from him on Wednesday morning.
He said you were in Paris."
"But since that--hasn't he written?"
"If I hear from him on Sunday I shall be lucky, bless ye!" said Constance, grimly.
"It's not letter-writing that will kill Cyril."
"But do you mean to say he hasn't--" Matthew stopped.
"Whatever's amiss?" asked Constance.
Matthew was at a loss to know what to do or say.
"Oh, nothing."
"Now, Mr. Matthew, do please--" Constance's tone had suddenly quite changed.
It had become firm, commanding, and gravely suspicious.
The conversation had ceased to be small-talk for her.
Matthew saw how nervous and how fragile she was.
He had never noticed before that she was so sensitive to trifles, though it was notorious that nobody could safely discuss Cyril with her in terms of chaff.
He was really astounded at that youth's carelessness, shameful carelessness.
That Cyril's attitude to his mother was marked by a certain benevolent negligence--this Matthew knew; but not to have written to her with the important news concerning Mrs. Scales was utterly inexcusable; and Matthew determined that he would tell Cyril so.