“Well, you are a funny boy.”
“I’m in love all right,” he said; “but I fed as if I’d never like to marry and just go on with you forever and ever. I could find a sort of happiness in just making enough for us to live on.”
His mother came over to him and laid her hands on his shoulders:
“Don’t make trouble for yourself, my dear. Don’t do that. Let things alone. Trouble comes fast enough, and all your plans and thoughts and hopes aren’t enough to deal with them. That’s your father all over. Always wanting a little better than he got, and always getting a little worse than he deserved. Suppose we go out together once a week. That’ll stop us getting into the way of sitting too much alone. And if the girl’s the right sort of girl she won’t let being rich and all that stand in her way.”
René patted her hand.
“It’s awfully good of you to listen,” he said; “I feel better already. Only George——”
“Don’t let George worry you. He can do things you can’t. George can keep his mind out of things like that.”
He felt immensely relieved. His confession seemed to have filled the vacancy left by George. Between himself and his mother there was established a more living relationship. There had been some authority in her comfortable words which had led him back to the old unconsidered position in which she was the central warmth of the home in which he lived. For a time at least he could be at rest and accept that things were so because they were so and not otherwise.
Gradually they won back to happy insignificant chatter, and planned that on the following evening they would go to a music-hall together.