"Do you want me to tell you about ... Kathleen, mother?"
"Is she pretty?" cunningly drawing him out. "I once had a pupil called Kathleen; she was Irish, and had blue eyes and black hair. Has your Kathleen blue eyes?" Purposely she leant rich stress on the possessive pronoun; he must be made to feel from the start that she did not regard the girl from the traditional mother's standpoint of "designing female," but with the deeper tenderness that is bred of understanding. She could trust her boy to love wisely even when he had acted foolishly.
Gareth tried to visualize Kathleen on the occasion most vivid to his memory, when flushed and radiant she had sprung before him from the gloomy passage of the house in North Kensington.
"Her eyes are dark," he said at length, slowly. "Not hard darkness, you know, but the brown of water in heavy shadow; and the brows are very close above them. She walks as if her feet were bare. Her skin is lovely, rich dusky colours, olive and geranium red." This last, mindful of his mother's weak point: "A true lady, Gareth, is always particular about her complexion and hands."
Bit by bit, led by artfully inserted queries, he related the whole chain of events; throwing in also as much as he knew of Kathleen's birth, relations, and conditions of life generally. He did not mention his visit to North Kensington.
"Go on, dear."
"There's no more to say, mother."
"Yes, Gareth, there is something more." Suddenly her tones rang out clear and accusing: "I'm waiting to hear that you are prepared to make the poor girl your wife."
Gareth was stricken dumb at thus finding himself thrust into the rôle of villain and betrayer. Before he could sufficiently collect himself for speech, Mrs. Temple went on, her voice trembling a little in genuine emotion:
"Oh, my dear, my dear, I know how it is with you; you are growing into a man with a man's ideas. Your companions have been telling you that chivalry is 'played out,' food only for old women and romantic girls and molly-coddles. Believe me, dear, it isn't so. Chivalry and honour are not weaknesses to be ashamed of. They are what in the olden days made a knight strongest: strong in battle, strong in love. Oh, Gareth, there are so many in the world to help a woman's tears to flow; don't join their ranks. Don't take up with this modern poisonous notion of living only for the gratification of the ... senses——" The white unwrinkled cheeks of the speaker blushed a faint rose at this use of a word offensive to her. "Have you forgotten the tales I used to tell you? Of Arthur and his queen; of Pelleas and Ettarre; Galahad, the maiden knight, the quest of Percivale; Launcelot and Elaine. Little son, these legends and songs are valuable only for their symbolic meaning. A damsel on a charger, a knight supporting her with his arm, the spirit of the picture exists equally without the steed and armour. And when you are an old white-haired man, my darling, I want you to be able to say, 'God helping me, I have never wronged a woman that I did not strive to put it right.' How are you to speak those words when the poor frightened child who loved you only too well, is left to fight her battles alone? There is only one way of righting that wrong, Gareth; and the way lies through a golden wedding-ring."