A little color crept into the girl’s face.
“I don’t know; perhaps it isn’t. It is the one that seems open to me.”
“The only one, my dear? You must know what I mean.”
Millicent turned and faced her. She was disturbed, but she seldom avoided a plain issue.
“I think,” she said, “it would be better if you told me.”
“It’s difficult.” Mrs. Gladwyne hesitated. “You must forgive me if I go wrong. Still, you know it was always expected that you would marry Clarence some day. It would be so desirable.”
“For which of us?” Millicent’s tone was sharp. She sympathized with Mrs. Gladwyne, but something was due to herself.
“It was Clarence that I was thinking of,” admitted her visitor. “I suppose that I am selfish; but I am his mother.” She laid down her cup and looked at the girl with pleading eyes. “I must go on, though I don’t think I could say what I wish to any one but you. Clarence has many good qualities, but he needs guidance. An affectionate son; but it is my misfortune that I am not wise or firm enough to advise or restrain him. I have dropped behind the new generation; the standards are different from what they were when I was young.”
This was true, but it was incomplete, and Millicent let her finish.
“I have been a little anxious, perhaps foolishly so, about him now and then. I cannot approve of all his friends—sometimes they jar on me—and I do not like the views he seems to have acquired from them. They are not the ones his father held. Of course, this is only the result of wrong associations and of having a good-humored, careless nature; it would be so different if he could be brought under some wholesome influence.” She smiled at Millicent. “One could trust implicitly to yours.”