Mrs. Morel was so intense that Paul began to pant.
"Why—painting—and books. You don't care about Herbert Spencer."
"No," was the sad reply. "And you won't at my age."
"Well, but I do now—and Miriam does——"
"And how do you know," Mrs. Morel flashed defiantly, "that I shouldn't? Do you ever try me?"
"But you don't, mother, you know you don't care whether a picture's decorative or not; you don't care what manner it is in."
"How do you know I don't care? Do you ever try me? Do you ever talk to me about these things, to try?"
"But it's not that that matters to you, mother, you know it's not."
"What is it, then—what is it, then, that matters to me?" she flashed. He knitted his brows with pain.
"You're old, mother, and we're young."