Jock switched off the light. “D' you know, Blonde, I shouldn't wonder if old T. A.'s sweetish on you,” he said as he came over to the window.
“Old!”
“He's forty or over, isn't he?”
“Son, do you realize your charming mother's thirty-nine?”
“Oh, you! That's different. You look a kid. You're young in all the spots where other women of thirty-nine look old. Around the eyes, and under the chin, and your hands, and the corners of your mouth.”
In the twilight Emma McChesney turned to stare at her son. “Just where did you learn all that, young 'un? At college?”
And, “Some view, isn't it, Mother?” parried Jock. The two stood there, side by side, looking out across the great city that glittered and swam in the soft haze of the late November afternoon. There are lovelier sights than New York seen at night, from a window eyrie with a mauve haze softening all, as a beautiful but experienced woman is softened by an artfully draped scarf of chiffon. There are cities of roses, cities of mountains, cities of palm-trees and sparkling lakes; but no sight, be it of mountains, or roses, or lakes, or waving palm-trees, is more likely to cause that vague something which catches you in the throat.
It caught those two home-hungry people. And it opened the lips of one of them almost against his will.
“Mother,” said Jock haltingly, painfully, “I came mighty near coming home—for good—this time.”
His mother turned and searched his face in the dim light.