“He dislikes me very much,” said Taswell; “but that is quite natural. I am the Enemy, because I will not knuckle under.”
“I don’t knuckle under to him,” said Elaine quickly.
“Ah, you’re his mother; and he’s obliged to recognize you as a fixture. You must be circumvented; but I can be got rid of, if he is determined enough.”
“And are you content to be got rid of?”
“I know it’s my fault,” said Taswell. “I haven’t got the right sort of patience.”
“I don’t set too much store by patience,” said Elaine quickly. “If he’s naughty you ought to smack him. I would back you up. I smack him when he is naughty.”
“He is never naughty with you,” said Taswell with smiling lips and speaking eyes. His words carried two meanings.
Elaine’s answer had but one. “No! Because he knows what he would get! If you were to . . .”
“There is a difference,” Taswell pointed out, smiling. “Parental smacking is orthodox.”
Elaine got up impatiently. The young man’s eyes gleamed at the sight of that splendid straightening. She crossed the room, and came back. “You make him out a perfect little monster between you!” she said bitterly.