Mrs. Morison smiled, and touched lightly with the tip of her finger the bandaged arm which lay on the outside of the coverlid.
"We won't dispute about it," said she. "The proof is here. Let it go, if you like; but we shall remember."
"But," protested Maurice, "it wouldn't be honest for me to let you think that I did anything for Miss Morison. I should have been only too glad to help her, but I couldn't. I wish what you think could have been true; but since it isn't, I can't let you think it is."
Mrs. Morison let the matter drop, but her kind old eyes were brighter than ever. She contented herself with saying that at least he was to remain with them, and need not try to escape; then she led the talk to more indifferent matters. Her hand, worn and thin, the blue veins relieved under the delicate skin, lay on the white coverlid like a beautiful carving of ivory. As Maurice looked at it, it brought into his mind the hand of his mother, as in her last days, when he sat by her bedside, it had rested in the same fashion. The tears sprang in his eyes at the memory, half-blinding him. As he tried to brush them away unseen he caught the sympathetic look of his hostess, and its sweetness overpowered him still more. Meeting his glance, she leaned forward tenderly, taking his fingers in her own.
"What is it?" asked she softly.
"Your hand," he answered simply. "It looked so like my mother's."
"Poor boy," she murmured.
He returned the pressure of her clasp, and then the masculine dislike for effusiveness asserted itself.
"I'm afraid I'm weaker than I thought," he said shamefacedly. "I'm almost hysterical."
She glanced at him shrewdly, and smiling, rose.