"I knew he could," protested Mrs. Morel scornfully.
She pretended not to notice that Paul had gone out of the room. He sat in the kitchen, smoking. Then he tried to brush some grey ash off his coat. He looked again. It was one of his mother's grey hairs. It was so long! He held it up, and it drifted into the chimney. He let go. The long grey hair floated and was gone in the blackness of the chimney.
The next day he kissed her before going back to work. It was very early in the morning, and they were alone.
"You won't fret, my boy!" she said.
"No, mother."
"No; it would be silly. And take care of yourself."
"Yes," he answered. Then, after a while: "And I shall come next Saturday, and shall I bring my father?"
"I suppose he wants to come," she replied. "At any rate, if he does you'll have to let him."
He kissed her again, and stroked the hair from her temples, gently, tenderly, as if she were a lover.