“Oh, I don’t mean that. I mean her staying out and leaving me to myself till I go to bed. I call that—I call that—delicate.”
“I can sing some myself,” said Clarence, more affected by Dora’s declaration than he cared to show.
“Oh, can you? We’ll get up some duets.”
“The kids at my school used to like to hear me sing, but perhaps it was because they didn’t know any better. But you didn’t tell me anything about that old woman who raised such a fuss about seeing a cross on my hand. What was the matter with her?”
“She hates Catholics. I don’t know what to make of her. She acts as if she would like to poison me because I’m a Catholic. She thinks you’re one.”
“But I’m not.”
“What are you, Clarence?”
“I’m nothing. My father said I was to wait till I was fourteen before I thought anything about religion.”
Suddenly Clarence stopped. The vision of his parents presented itself,—their grief, their bewilderment, their perplexity. His eyes filled with tears.
“What’s the matter, Clarence?”