'Oh, I know, I know! That is the worst of it—I know! It is not because you are proud of earning your own living, it's because you're ashamed of me!'
Lushington rose again, and began to walk up and down, bending his head and glancing at her now and then.
'Why will you always go back to that question?' he asked, and his tone showed how much he resented it. 'You cannot unlive your life. Don't make me say more than that, for you don't know how it hurts to say that much. Indeed you don't!'
He went to the closed window and looked out, turning away from her. She stretched out her hand and pulled at his coat timidly, as a dog pulls his master's clothes to attract his attention. He turned his head a little.
'I've tried to live differently, Tom,' she said. 'Of late years I've tried.'
Her voice was low and unsteady.
'I know it,' he said just above a whisper, and he turned to the window-pane again.
'Can't you forgive me, Tom?' she asked pitifully. 'Won't you take some of the money—only what I made by singing?'
He shook his head without looking round, for it would have hurt him to see her eyes just then.
'I have enough, mother,' he answered. 'I make as much as I need.'