"Please, ma—for God's sake—please—please!"
"Look—such beautiful roses! From Sol Ginsberg, an old friend of papa's he used to buy brasses from eighteen years ago. Six years he's been away with his daughter in Munich. Such a beautiful mezzo they say, engaged already for Metropolitan next season."
"I hate it, ma, if they breathe on my neck."
"Leon darlink, did mamma promise to fix it? Have I ever let you play a concert when you wouldn't be comfortable?"
His long, slim hands suddenly prehensile and cutting a streak of upward gesture, Leon Kantor rose to his feet, face whitening.
"Do it now! Now, I tell you. I won't have them breathe on me. Do you hear me? Now! Now! Now!"
Risen also, her face soft and tremulous for him, Mrs. Kantor put out a gentle, a sedative hand upon his sleeve.
"Son," she said, with an edge of authority even behind her smile, "don't holler at me!"
He grasped her hand with his two and, immediately quiet, lay a close string of kisses along it.
"Mamma," he said, kissing again and again into the palm, "mamma—mamma."