Francis was inclined to approve, but Martha wept. Like so many mothers, she had no notion of her real relation with her children, and lived in a fantasy in which she was the perfect mother who adored and was adored by them. More than once to Mrs. Clibran-Bell she had said:
“There is nothing that my children do that they do not tell me.”
And Mrs. Clibran-Bell, being of much the same type, believed her, and together they glowed with rapture over this miracle of domesticity.
Leedham had very little imagination or capacity of invention, and, like his father, had rather a disconcerting way of accepting the facts of his existence for better, for worse. He knew that he was unhappy at home, felt that he was going to be a great deal more unhappy, and saw nothing but the necessity of getting away.
“Darling Leedham,” said his mother, “how can you think of entering upon vulgar commerce!”
“What else am I to do?”
“But think of your name! A Folyat in a bank!—a clerk! And with your Christian name too!”
(The Earldom of Leedham was the title which Minna missed sharing when she jilted Willie Folyat.)
“George Clibran-Bell is in a bank,” said Leedham.
“But, darling, how can you leave your mother? How can you think of it?”