“Well then,” he said, and he could not help but see his mother’s wince of pain as her own son went on, “this is all your own fault. You’ve never been willing to go anywhere with Dad; you won’t keep yourself young for him. Why, he’s just like a boy! Whenever we go out together, everyone thinks he’s my brother. If he can’t find the companionship he needs in his own home, he is bound to seek it on the outside.”
“But Howard,” demurred Marjorie weakly, “I don’t believe in cabarets, and musical comedies, and it seems silly to fix up like a girl of twenty. I don’t believe in trying to make myself young.”
“But mother, you are young,” Howard persisted. “Why don’t you say—‘to hell with my beliefs! My husband’s love is the only thing that counts.’ ”
“Why—Howard—” Marjorie was shocked, but pleased nevertheless.
“Beat this other woman to it,” Howard was speaking in the sage manner of a man of the world. “Get the right kind of clothes—fix yourself up, and then do a little vamping on your own account and just see what happens.”
“Oh—I wonder—if I could,” she murmured.
“Of course, you could—take it from me, mother! You can hold your own with any woman, if you just buckle up a bit. Well, I’m going to take a spin around the block and then go downtown.” Howard Benton had been serious long enough for one day. He hesitated, then, “I wonder, mater—could you spare fifty—I’m awfully low in funds?” he wheedled.
“Yes, dear,” she answered dreamily, “come with me to my room.”
Upstairs she extracted a number of bills from her purse. “There’s a hundred for you,” she said, handing them to him.
“Thanks awfully!” The boy kissed her, and walked to the door. Something urged him to turn. His mother was looking at him with eyes filled with longing. He grinned at her cheerily. “And I say, mother,” he offered, “ask me anything you wish to know—I’m the best little advisor you ever met. Good-night.”