“My chief reason is that I believe he’s too young and inexperienced to give you the kind of support you need.”
At his words her face changed again, freezing to a tragic coldness. She stared straight ahead of her, perceptibly struggling with the tremor of her muscles; and when she had controlled it she flung out a pale-lipped pleasantry. “But you see I’ve always had to support myself!”
“He’s a boy,” Darrow pushed on, “a charming, wonderful boy; but with no more notion than a boy how to deal with the inevitable daily problems ... the trivial stupid unimportant things that life is chiefly made up of.” “I’ll deal with them for him,” she rejoined.
“They’ll be more than ordinarily difficult.”
She shot a challenging glance at him. “You must have some special reason for saying so.”
“Only my clear perception of the facts.”
“What facts do you mean?”
Darrow hesitated. “You must know better than I,” he returned at length, “that the way won’t be made easy to you.”
“Mrs. Leath, at any rate, has made it so.”
“Madame de Chantelle will not.”