“Do you love me very much, Howard?” she asked.
Having spent so much time away from home, attending boarding school and college, Howard had experienced little real affection. For his father he possessed a great admiration. He enjoyed being designated as the son of Hugh Benton, the Wall Street magnate, and he also knew that he owed his ability to indulge in many extravagances to his father’s generosity. His mother, in his eyes, had always been a nice old lady, rather impossible and aggravating at times. He had often wondered, he was forced to admit, why a handsome, distinguished man like his father had ever married such an old-fashioned, plain woman.
He was perceptibly embarrassed at his mother’s unexpected query, but an innate kindness and generosity of which he knew little himself, bade him return her caress with a gentle pressure as he told her with careless tenderness:
“Why, of course, I love you, mother—why shouldn’t I? But come on down—be a real sport.” Gently he took her arm, hurried her down the stairs and out to the yard.
“Look,” he said proudly, “isn’t she a beauty!”
Standing in the garage was an expensive, high-class bright red roadster.
“My new present from Dad,” he explained.
“How did you get it so quickly?” Marjorie asked. “It was only yesterday morning that I heard you say you were going to order it.” Then she added, dubiously, as she walked nearer and eyed it critically: “This must have been very expensive,” she said, noticing the make.
“Well, Dad didn’t limit me; he simply told me I could have a car, so I thought I might as well get one of the best.” Howard took it as a matter of course.
“Your father always indulges both Elinor and you to a ridiculous extent,” his mother demurred.