He smiled, a forced, strained sort of smile, but civil enough, considering how unwelcome the sight of her was. He stopped walking up and down, too, and, after a moment, said, in a perfunctory voice:
“It’s going to be a hot day.”
“Geordie!” said she. “Let me talk to you!”
As much as his mother, did he hate and dread that note of fervor, of intimacy. He moved his shoulders restlessly, and smiled again.
“About time for breakfast,” he murmured evasively.
“No, it’s not. Geordie, you won’t mind if I stay here with you and your mother for a little while, will you?”
He turned scarlet.
“No. Of course not,” he replied. “Very glad.”
“I want to stay—ever so much. But only if it can be my way. Because I’m a frightfully obstinate creature, Geordie; absolutely unmanageable. And I can’t bear not to be independent. I’m going to find myself a job—”
“No!” he interrupted, with a frown. “Please don’t.”