He tried to explain. "My only conception of a mother is of some one poor—and hard-worked—and knocked about—and loving—and driven from pillar to post—whereas you're so beautiful—and young—young almost—and—and expensive—and—" A flip of his hand included the room—"with all this as your setting—and everything else—I can't credit it."
She came up to him excitedly. "Well, then—what?"
"The only thing we can do, it seems to me, is to try to make it easier for each other. May I ask one question?"
She nodded, mutely.
"Would you rather that your little boy was found?—or that he wasn't found?"
She wheeled away, speaking only after a minute's thought, and from the other side of the room. "I'd rather that he was found—of course—if I could be sure that he was found."
"How would you know when you were sure?"
She tapped her heart. "I ought to know it here."
"That's the way I'd know it too."