“You neglect your mother, young man,” she said.
“Oh, come now, auntie!” he answered quite gently. “You mustn’t talk like that. I write to her every week. I’ve never missed a week. I come down as often as——”
“You miss the Sunday sometimes,” Sophia interrupted him.
“Perhaps,” he said doubtfully. “But what——”
“Don’t you understand that she simply lives for your letters? And if one doesn’t come, she’s very upset indeed—can’t eat! And it brings on her sciatica, and I don’t know what!”
He was taken aback by her boldness, her directness.
“But how silly of her! A fellow can’t always——”
“It may be silly. But there it is. You can’t alter her. And, after all, what would it cost you to be more attentive, even to write to her twice a week? You aren’t going to tell me you’re so busy as all that! I know a great deal more about young men than your mother does.” She smiled like an aunt.
He answered her smile sheepishly.
“If you’ll only put yourself in your mother’s place...!”