"Father told me yesterday that you were not happy together," he said shyly, as he played with the spoon in his teacup. "It upset me rather. I am awfully sorry about it, mother."
He did not look at her when he spoke, and did not see the sudden flush on her handsome face. She herself had meant to tell Alan. It had never entered her head for one moment that Clifford, who, so she knew in her heart of hearts, had borne with her patiently, would have taken the initiative and opened the subject to the boy in her absence. She was stung beyond bearing.
"Happy!" she said excitedly. "Who could be happy with your father? So he has been speaking to you about me, has he? And what has he been daring to say against me?"
"He never said anything against you," the boy answered, in a low voice. "He only told me you were not happy together."
She arranged the cushions on the sofa angrily, and leaned amongst them angrily.
"Happy!" she said. "I should like to know who could be happy with your father—a man of no heart, no emotions, selfish beyond words, and unkind beyond belief."
"Oh, mother, that's not true," the boy said, with an indignant outburst. "Father is always good and kind. I never once heard him say an unkind word to you or me. It's all your fault. It's your temper. That's what it is."
His championship of his father aroused all the anger and jealousy in her nature.
She got up from the sofa and turned to him.