I laughed. It was so like the comment I had hoped her capable of making. "I'm afraid I'm her grievance tonight—I wish I thought a happy one."
"I'm afraid that's partly true," Helen replied. "Mother is an extreme stickler for the conventions. She complains that no one knows who you are. It was useless for me to tell her that I knew you and didn't care who you are—Mother says I am hopelessly of this generation—and regards that as an argument against you. I finally told her you were coming anyway—and, well—," she laughed,—"here you are."
So she had defended me and fought for me! My invitation to call was therefore no mere empty social form such as common politeness toward a stranger, but an offer of friendship.
"I really can set your mother's mind at rest," I said. "I belong to one or two decent clubs—so does my father—"
"Please don't—I'm not asking for a passport," she interrupted. "As for mother, she will get used to you in time."
This was encouraging, for it deliberately implied other calls to come. Of course, the upshot was that I told her all about myself, pouring out the pent-up loneliness accumulated since my arrival. She listened as only a sympathetic girl can listen to a man talking endlessly about himself. At times there came delicious silences during which we stared at the stars, and again a gentle question from her would start me off once more. It was with a shock that we suddenly noticed "mother" silhouetted in the doorway.
"Helen!" came the complaining voice. "It's half past ten." "Good Lord," I groaned inwardly, "I might have stayed all night." I rose hastily, Helen more deliberately.
"Very well, mother," her soft voice said, "Ted is just going." It was the first time she had called me Ted. I fell over a wicker tabouret in my delirium. As we passed into the living room, Mrs. Claybourne buttonholed me.
"Have you a grandfather, young man?"
Helen's shocked "Mother!" was unheeded.