But she remained silent, while he told his tale, haltingly, but not inartistically, for climax came at the end. She murmured softly:
“My dear son——!”
He knelt down and laid his throbbing head on her lap. She stroked his hair. He looked up at her.
“Mother, I love her.”
She smiled at him.
“So do I. Can you doubt that?”
“No, no. But father——! I have burnt all my boats just when I most needed them. I meant to go slow, to break my news considerately. I have behaved like a madman, irritated and offended him past forgiveness.”
He may have hoped that she would deny this. No comforting word dropped from her lips. Never had he seen her face so troubled.
“Have you nothing to say?” he burst out.
She answered gently: “You mustn’t hurry me, Lionel. I stand between my husband and my son. I have a duty to each. I tell you this—in small things I can and do influence your father. Dear old Ben can say as much. In Matters which touch deeply his pride, his ambition, his inherited instincts and sensibilities, my influence is—negligible. All my life I have known this; all my life I have prayed that no issue might arise between us which would provoke me to—to fight against those instincts, so strong in him, so ineradicable.”