"Oh yes; it isn't that—not altogether."
She laid her hand on his shoulder.
"What is it, Bob darling? Can't you tell me? I'm your mother, dear—"
But he moved away from her touch, as if unable to bear sympathy.
"I can't tell you yet, old lady. I must see my own way first. I've got to get through this business about the boy before I take any step whatever. She knows pretty well that I know that—that she and Hubert are in love with—with each other—"
"Oh, but Hubert is not in love with her. He told me so."
"Not in love with her?" he cried, sharply. "Why isn't he?"
"He said—oh, Bob, I can't talk about it. You'll—"
"You've got to talk about it, mother. I can't half know. I must know! If he wasn't in love with her, what did he mean by making her think—"
"I don't believe he did make her think. He hinted that—that there'd been something between them, but that—that with girls of that sort you—you couldn't call it love."