“Dad’s all right!” Howard bristled up. “And if you’d take a tip from me, mother, you’d try to spruce up a bit and be a little more companionable to him, or some ‘chicken’ will be stealing him away from you one of these days.”
Marjorie turned ghastly as she clutched at the car for support. Could it be possible that Howard knew something, and was trying to warn her? No, she decided, as she glanced up and saw that he was busily engaged examining the engine, and not paying the slightest attention to what he had said. It was only a chance remark, but oh, how the thrust had gone home!
Marjorie Benton looked at this handsome boy who was her own son, her flesh and blood. A surge of deep feeling came over her. Why, he was no longer a boy! He was a man—her son, one to comfort and cherish her. A thought which brought the quick blood to her face, so foreign was it to her usual restraint and the way she had come to bear her burdens silently overwhelmed her. Why not tell Howard? Why not ask his aid?
She walked slowly over to the youth who was whistling as he patted the smooth shining hood of his new toy as though it were a living feeling thing, and placed her hand on his arm. Howard looked up quickly, but something he saw in his mother’s eyes brought a remonstrance to his lips.
“Why, mother—dear—what is it?” he asked. “You look so queer!”
The mother’s smile was wan.
“I feel queer, dear,” she admitted. “The whole world looks queer. Howard, my son, I must tell you something. Your father and I have quarreled and I’m afraid seriously.”
“So that is what was wrong with him,” Howard whistled again, but there was relief in his voice as he added, carelessly: “Well, why should he take it out on me—I can’t help it if you two can’t hit it off together—can I?”
“Oh, Howard!” Marjorie shuddered. “How can you——”
“Now, don’t you go and misunderstand me, mater—but what’s the use of being so serious? You’ve quarreled many times before, and it always blows over.”