"I was thinking, Fanshaw, supposing you married and some dreadful woman won you away from your poor mother; what should I do? You're so sweet to me; you take such care of me."
Fanshaw turned red to the roots of his sandy hair.
"Not much danger of that," he said stiffly. "We'll have a nice cup of tea in a minute, very weak, so that we shan't get too nervous, shan't we dear?"
"I know it's so, Fanshaw. Some girl has got a hold on you. Don't trust her dear, don't trust her. Women are so wicked. She's after your social position or thinks you make a good salary... O, I'd die, I'd die if someone got you away from me." Mrs. Macdougan was sitting bolt upright in the chair, beating on her knees with little puffy hands. A wisp of grey hair had fallen down over her forehead, revealing a bit of the black rat under the pompadour. "They are such scheming creatures, so deceitful and wicked, and I so want you to have a beautiful career and be a comfort to me."
"O, now please dear! O, now please dear!" Fanshaw was saying, clenching and unclenching his hands, staring into the crowded twilight of the library behind his mother's head.
Susan, tall, with genial horse teeth, came in with a tray of tea things.
"O, your hair's acomin' down, mum. Can't I fix it for you, mum?"
"Do, Susan, please," said Mrs. Macdougan in a faint voice, drooping against the pillow.
Fanshaw brought up a small table and poured out a cup of tea. His lips were compressed and trembling. When Susan had gone he said in a quiet, expressionless voice:
"Now, mother, you are getting yourself worked up over nothing. I assure you there is nothing whatever between me and any girl."