"But the daughter is so modern—and yet—"
"The result is the same? Not exactly. She admires you—oh, immensely!" He replaced the bronze and turned to his mother with a smile. "Aren't you on some hospital committee together? What especially strikes her is your way of doing good. She says philanthropy is not a line of conduct, but a state of mind—and it appears that you are one of the elect."
As, in the vague diffusion of physical pain, relief seems to come with the acuter pang of a single nerve, Mrs. Quentin felt herself suddenly eased by a rush of anger against the girl. "If she loved you—" she began.
His gesture checked her. "I'm not asking you to get her to do that."
The two were again silent, facing each other in the disarray of a common catastrophe—as though their thoughts, at the summons of danger, had rushed naked into action. Mrs. Quentin, at this revealing moment, saw for the first time how many elements of her son's character had seemed comprehensible simply because they were familiar: as, in reading a foreign language, we take the meaning of certain words for granted till the context corrects us. Often as in a given case, her maternal musings had figured his conduct, she now found herself at a loss to forecast it; and with this failure of intuition came a sense of the subserviency which had hitherto made her counsels but the anticipation of his wish. Her despair escaped in the moan, "What is it you ask me?"
"To talk to her."
"Talk to her?"
"Show her—tell her—make her understand that the paper has always been a thing outside your life—that hasn't touched you—that needn't touch her. Only, let her hear you—watch you—be with you—she'll see...she can't help seeing..."
His mother faltered. "But if she's given you her reasons—?"
"Let her give them to you! If she can—when she sees you...." His impatient hand again displaced the wrestler. "I care abominably," he confessed.