He brought them to her, three old yellow programmes of a “Concert Given at the Town Hall, Truro.” “There, do you see? Miss Minnie Trenowth, In the Gloaming—There, I sang in those days. Oh! Truro was fun when I was a girl! There was always something going on! You see I wasn't always on my back!”
He crushed the papers in his hand.
“But, mother! If you were like that then—what's made you like this now?”
“It's nerves, dear—I've been stupid about it.”
“And father, how has he treated you these years?”
“Your father has always been very kind.”
“Mother, tell me the truth! I must know. Has he been kind to you?”
“Yes, dear—always.”
But her voice was very faint and that look that Peter had noticed before was again in her eyes.
“Mother—you must tell me. That's not true.”