"You judge Alan."
"Ah, he is not others," she murmured, with an accent that touched the older woman.
"You judge his mother."
"I don't; I don't!"
Mrs. Quentin pressed her point. "You judge yourself, then, as you would be in my position—and your verdict condemns me."
"How can you think it? It's because I appreciate the difference in our point of view that I find it so difficult to defend myself—"
"Against what?"
"The temptation to imagine that I might be as you are—feeling as I do."
Mrs. Quentin rose with a sigh. "My child, in my day love was less subtle." She added, after a moment, "Alan is a perfect son."
"Ah, that again—that makes it worse!"