She had never seen that look on his face before. He had always been utterly loyal to her, had always loved her, but it had been after the fashion of a boy. The look she saw on his face now was not a boy’s; it was the profound compassion and tenderness of a man. It came to her, with a stab of pain, that she had cruelly underrated her son. She had thought of him as a dear and rather clumsy boy, and he was so much more than that—so much more!
Her own affair seemed more fantastic than ever now. Here was Robert, making his valiant battle in the world for the life and safety of his wife and child. Here was Molly, busy with the vital needs of life, with food and clothes, with the care of their child; and she herself was going to work in the Needlecraft Shop.
She had to tell them, of course. When they were all seated at the table, she did so, in the most casual, matter-of-fact way.
It was even worse than she had feared. Robert grew very white.
“You mean—a job?” he asked.
“It’s charitable work, really,” Mrs. Champney explained. “The foreign-born women bring their needlework to the shop, and we sell it on commission for them. The idea is to encourage their home industries, and—”
“But you’re going to get paid for it?” asked Robert.
“Why, yes!” said Mrs. Champney brightly. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy the work, too. I’ve always—”
“You mean you’re going off to work every morning in this shop?” said Robert. “Do you mind telling me why?”
“Because I consider it very useful and interesting work, Robert,” replied Mrs. Champney, with dignity.