"Mother!" he exclaimed, anxiously. "What is wrong? Are you ill? Don't, mother, don't cry. Speak to me, speak to me."
She did not answer. He stepped forward quickly and lifted her face between his hands, tenderly. He saw that her eyes were filled with tears.
"Please," she said, drawing back her head. He dropped his arms to his sides. "Please, I must be alone," she said.
"Tell me, tell me, what is it?" he begged.
Rising a trifle unsteadily to her feet she walked past him to the door. He wheeled as she was about to step out of the room and caught her in his arms.
"Mother, dearest," he pleaded, "what is it? Is it because you do not approve? Is it so terrible that she must work to live and that she plays in pictures? Surely, you can't think wrong of her?"
Slowly she nodded her head. He stepped back in amazement. How could she possibly think such things?
"I had hoped, because she was a friend of yours, that she would be what you thought her," Mrs. Gallant said, tremulously.
"Why, mother, what are you talking about?" he gasped. "She is my friend and there is nothing to make me think that she is anything but what I believed her to be, a dear, kind friend."