And then he paused; the door opened creakingly and his mother entered. She was a magnificent young-old woman, her body sixty-three years old, her mind singularly fresh and young. She was tall, straight, spirited, and under the neat glossy-white hair was a noble face, somewhat long, somewhat slim, a little pallid, but with firm chin and large forehead and living large black eyes set among sharp lines of lids. The whole woman was focussed in the eyes, sparkled there, lived there, deep, limpid, quick, piercing. Her pallor changed to pure whiteness.
"Joe …" her voice broke. "I've been looking for you…."
He paused, walled away from her by years of isolation. She advanced slowly; her face became terrible in its hungry love, its mother passion. She met his eyes, and then he fled to her, and his body shook with rough, tearless sobs. Her relief came in great tears.
"And all those girls," she was murmuring, "and those men. How did it happen?"
He drew back; his eyes became strange.
"Mother," he said, harshly, "I'm the guilty one. There was a heap of cotton waste in the corner, shouldn't have been there. And I let the men smoke cigarettes."
She was horrified.
"But why did you do that?" she whispered, moving a little away from him.
"My thoughtlessness … my business." The word was charged with bitterness. "Business! business! I'm a business man! I wasn't in business"—he gave a weird laugh—"for the health of my employees! I was making money!"
She looked at him as if he had ceased being her son and had turned into a monster. Then she swayed, grasped the bedpost and sank on the bed.