Then Mary spoiled it all. He could not blame her as much as he wished, for after all it was simply another morning and she would have been sure to act the same way some other day if she had postponed it this time. It was just one of those conversations. And yet once again he was overwhelmed with that sense of the world outside of him, expecting him to rise up and act in some preposterous worthwhile manner. The world of the adult was perilously close. He hated to be reminded of it.
“Blake darling,” she had said, “are you doing anything this morning?” Harmless enough as far as it went. He answered without suspecting anything.
“Nothing special. Can I help you?”
“If you would. I haven’t anyone to send up to Sunmount with some flowers I promised to Mrs. Meriwether, because Paul is busy over at the garage overhauling the Packard, and I’ll need it this afternoon. I did promise Mrs. Meriwether, and the poor thing’s so ill. Could you possibly——”
“Certainly. I’ll take them over now, if you like.” He stood up and pushed back his chair.
“Wait a minute, dear. It isn’t so important that it can’t wait a little. I’ve been waiting for a chance to talk to you.”
He hesitated, badly frightened at her tone. Something was going to happen; something unpleasant.
“It’s about school.”
He sat down again slowly and hopelessly. “I knew it,” he said. “What about it?”
“Well.... Here’s a letter from the people in California. They’re willing to take you for the next year; isn’t that nice?”