She heard footsteps approaching, and went out of the open front door into the garden. Here she was presently joined by Clay, who had been wandering about in an aimless fashion, awaiting the result of her interview with his father. Once glance at her face was sufficient to inform him that she had not succeeded in her mission. He said: “O God!” and slumped down upon a rustic seat, and gazed moodily at a hedge of fuchsia.
Faith sat down beside him, and, after blowing her nose, and dabbing at her reddened eyes, said: “I did my best. He just won’t listen.”
He was silent for a moment, kneading his hands together between his knees. His mouth worked; he said after a slight pause: “Mother!”
“Yes, dearest?”
“I can’t stick it.”
With a vague idea of consoling him, she said: “I know, but perhaps you may not mind the work as much as you think. One thing is that Clifford’s nice. I mean, he’s kind, and I’m sure he...”
“It isn’t that — though that’s bad enough! It’s having to go on living here. I — I simply can’t!”
“You’ll have me, darling. And it may not be for very long, perhaps. I mean, one never knows what may turn up.”
He paid no attention to this. “Mother, I — I hate Father!” he said, as though the words were wrenched out of him.
“Oh, dearest, you mustn’t say that!”