With her child’s lack of self-consciousness she looked him straight in the eyes. “You—for one thing.”
“Me!” He had hardly the words for his amazement. “For heaven’s sake, what can you have to remember about me that—that could give you any pleasure?”
“Oh, I didn’t say it would give me any pleasure. I said I’d have it. It’d be mine—something no one couldn’t take away from me.”
“But if it doesn’t do you any good––”
“It does me good if it makes me richer, don’t it?”
“Richer to—to remember me?”
She nodded, with a little twisted smile, beginning to move toward the door. Over her shoulder she said: “And it isn’t only you. There’s—there’s Steptoe.”