"I shan't pretend, mother. It's about Helen," I said in answer to her question.
"What about Helen?" my mother replied coldly.
I wondered what to say. She sat there looking at me calmly, but there was a hardness in her expression which indicated that all defences were fully manned. "I'll make a mess of it—get the worst of it, I know, and go out of here thoroughly in the wrong," I said to myself. "But, damn it all, I ought to be able to think of the right thing."
"You wished to speak to me about Helen?"
"Helen likes you," I blurted out, at the same time realizing I had made the worst of all possible starts.
"She has only to tell me this herself." My mother's voice was level.
"Would it do any good?" I blundered on.
"I am sure I have not the least idea what you mean, Ted. I think it would be much better if you went up to your own room."
I began to be desperate. There ought to be some facial flag of truce, indicating unconditional surrender, that one could wave with a look. At that moment I would have given anything, except Helen's love, to have my mother relent. Instead, she picked up a book and made an elaborate show of reading. I meditated flying into a childish rage, thus forcing the issue, but I was so truly hurt and angry I didn't dare. I knew I should probably say something I should afterwards regret. I got upon my feet.
"I am sorry you do not approve of my marriage, mother"—adding mistake number three to the two I was certain I had made.