"You—you wouldn't want to force something between you and me, Millie; that—that's just played out—"
"I done it myself. I couldn't let well enough alone. I was ambitious for 'em. I dug my own grave. I done it myself. Done it myself!"
"Now, Millie, you mustn't look at things that way. Why, you're the kind of a little woman all you got to have is something to mother over. I'm going to see to it that the boy is right here at home with you all the time. He can give up those rooms at the college—you got as fine a son as there is in the country, Millie—I'm going to see to it that he is right here at home with you—"
"O God—my boy—my little boy—my little boy!"
"The days are over, Millie, when this kind of thing makes any difference. If it was—the mother—it might be different, but where the father is—to blame—it don't matter with the boy. Anyways, he's nearly of age. I tell you, Millie, if you'll just look at this thing sensible—"
"I—Let me think, let—me—think."
Her tears had quieted now to little dry moans that came with regularity.
She was still swaying in her chair, eyes closed.
"You'll get your decree, Millie, without—."
"Don't talk," she said, a frown lowering over her closed eyes and pressing two fingers against each temple. "Don't talk."
He walked to the window in a state of great perturbation, stood pulling
inward his lips and staring down into the now brilliantly lighted flow of
Broadway. Turned into the room with short, hasty strides, then back again.
Came to confront her.