“Mother!” he said, in a tone almost tragic.
“But, my dear boy, how in the world did you know I’d get this train?” she asked gayly. “I didn’t write—”
“I’ve been waiting for an hour,” he answered. “You said ‘about dinner time,’ and I certainly wasn’t going to let you come from the station alone. This way—there’s a taxi waiting.”
Mrs. Champney was ashamed of herself. Robert was the dearest boy, so stalwart, so trustworthy, so handsome in his dark and somber fashion, and so touchingly devoted to her! After all, wasn’t it far better to be a little too heavy than too light and insubstantial? As he got into the cab beside her, she slipped her arm through his and squeezed it.
“You dear boy, to wait like that!” she said.
“Mother!” he said again. “By Heaven, I could wring that fellow’s neck! Speculating with your money—”
“Don’t take it like that, Robert. It’s all over and done with now.”
“No, it’s not!” said he. “It’s—the thing is, you’ve been used to all sorts of little—little comforts and so on; and just at the present time I’m not able to give you—”
“Please don’t, Robert!” she cried. “It hurts me![Pg 273]”
He put his arm about her shoulders.