“I’ve come back—like a prodigal,” he answered, kissing her, “but I’m not repentant. I’m going to have a talk with Dad to-night.”
She looked a bit frightened.
“But first,” he said, “a talk with you. Put on your mildest bonnet and we’ll take a walk in the park.”
Without delay she obeyed and stepped with him into the elevator. It was with some pride that she passed through the office by the side of her tall son; it was with a renewed vision of life that she walked with him along the hot street and over the familiar course they had footed together so many times. She noticed with further pride that several passers-by glanced twice at them. She did not realize that this might have been prompted somewhat by her son’s costume which, in contrast to her own modish dress and that of the other pedestrians, was strikingly picturesque. He still wore his dusty walking-boots, his flannel shirt and loose tie. With his brown skin and erect bearing he looked like a soldier home on a furlough from active service.
In twenty minutes they reached the park which was associated more intimately with his life than any other spot in New York. For it was here that she used to bring him as a child, as a schoolboy, and finally whenever he came home from college. It was here that the first discussions took place on Art versus the Acme; it was here that she threshed out her own conflict of duty to her son and duty to her husband. Until now she had felt that she had failed miserably in attempting to harmonize the hawthorn in her blood with the pine in her husband’s. But to-day there was that in her son’s bearing which seemed to give her fresh hope. So they came to their favorite seat and sat down.
“Mother,” he began abruptly, “I’ve learned a great deal in this last week.”
“You hinted about your big picture. You have it nearly done?”
“I haven’t begun it yet—on canvas,” he answered.
“It sounded very attractive as you described it,” she encouraged.
“It’s a wonderful subject,” he exclaimed. “But it’s much easier to paint a landscape than—”