“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!”
He put his arm about her shoulders.
“You’re not going to be hurt,” he said grimly; “not by anyone, mother!”
His tone and his words filled her with dismay.
“Robert,” she said firmly, “I will not be made a martyr of!”
“A victim, then,” Robert insisted doggedly. “You’ve been tricked and swindled by that contemptible fellow; but Frank and I are going to see that it’s made right!”
“Oh, Robert! You’re not going to do anything to that poor, miserable, distracted man?”
“Nothing we can do. You gave the fellow a free hand, and he took advantage of it. No, I mean that Frank and I are going to make it up to you, mother.”
He might as well have added “at any cost.” Mrs. Champney winced in spirit, but at the same time she loved him for his blundering tenderness, his uncomprehending loyalty. He meant only to reassure her, but he made it all so hard, so terribly hard! She felt tears well up in her eyes. How could she go through with this gallantly if he made it so hard?