He didn’t know whether he ought to go down to Staten Island again, or not. But Claudine wrote to him, and told him to come. Her mother didn’t in the least mind their seeing each other. So he went, sulky and reluctant, and was very well received. Mrs. Mason was quite natural and pleasant, and treated him just as she treated everyone else; and Claudine was heavenly. She found a chance to slip out into the garden with him, and as soon as they were alone, she kissed him, quite of her own accord.
“You see,” she said. “Poor mother thinks that if we see each other often enough, we’ll quarrel, or something of the sort. So if we just wait long enough, and she sees that we don’t, she’ll realize that she’s wrong; and it will be all right.”
“How long will it take?” he asked, gloomily. “Five years?”
“Oh, mercy, no! Only be patient.”
“I can’t be! I don’t want to wait! I love you so! I don’t want to waste years—”
“They won’t be wasted, Gilbert. They’ll be the happiest time of our lives. You’re happy now, aren’t you, this very moment?”
“Not so very. I want you for my own, Claudine.”
“I am your own. I love you and love you, darling Gilbert.”
Impossible to argue with her innocence; he resigned himself to get what joy he could from these stolen moments. And he knew that no matter how long he had to wait, no matter what humiliation and unpleasantness he had to endure, Claudine was worth it.
Suddenly, without the slightest pretense of reason, Mrs. Mason gave in, she no longer objected.