“Who’s we?”
“Helen and ... and ... me.”
“Are you in the habit of taking days off like that?”
“Oh no.... It’s the first time we’ve ever done it.”
There was a pause.
“You know,” he went on protestingly, “this sort of thing’s not good enough, Catherine.... You ought to see that this sort of thing can’t go on ... it’s too bad of you ... running off to play truant ... and on the very day that ... that your mother ...”
“How on earth could I——” she began hastily, and then stopped, for she saw that big tears were rolling down both his cheeks.
“Not good enough,” he kept muttering, vaguely reproachful.
Then later on he reopened the question.
“I suppose—er—you and Helen were the only people at the picnic?”