“ What nonsense, mother—you know I don’t love her—I—I tell you I don’t love her—she doesn’t even walk with my arm, because I don’t want her to.”
“ Then why do you fly to her so often?”
“ I do like to talk to her—I never said I didn’t. But I don’t love her.”
“ Is there nobody else to talk to?”
“ Not about the things we talk of. There’s a lot of things that you’re not interested in, that—”
“ What things?”
Mrs. Morel was so intense that Paul began to pant.
“ Why—painting—and books. You don’t care about Herbert Spencer.”
“ No,” was the sad reply. “And you won’t at my age.”
“ Well, but I do now—and Miriam does—”
“ And how do you know,” Mrs. Morel flashed defiantly, “that I shouldn’t. Do you ever try me!”
“ But you don’t, mother,
