“That,” said Serge with gusto, “that he shall not do if I can help it.”
“Oh! Serge, thank you. . . . Don’t let Frederic know I told you, and don’t say anything to your father. It would upset him so dreadfully.”
“No. I won’t say anything to either.”
“Oh! Serge. I shall be grateful to you as long as I live. Why does Heaven allow such creatures . . . . ?”
“I must get to my work,” said Serge. He kissed his mother and patted her shoulder, and stayed with her until she had dried her eyes and looked up at him with a watery smile.
Later in the morning, hearing Annette in the next room, he called to her, and when she came he asked her:
“Does mother read father’s letters?”
“She reads any letters she can find. I don’t think she can help it,” said Annette, blushing for her own lapse.
“Wicked old woman,” chuckled Serge. “Would you like a day in the country, one Saturday, Annette?”