“And so, dear—and so,” she stammered, “I told your father that I couldn't see that done, and so I came up to you.”
Many sons have found no hardship in accepting all that their mothers do for them as a matter of right, no difficulty in assuming their devotion a matter of course, no trouble in leaving their own affections to be understood; but most sons have found great difficulty in permitting their mothers to diverge one inch from the conventional, to swerve one hair's breadth from the standard of propriety appropriate to mothers of men of their importance.
It is decreed of mothers that their birth pangs shall not cease until they die.
And George was shocked to hear his mother say that she had left his father to come to him. It affected his self-esteem in a strange and subtle way. The thought that tongues might wag about her revolted his manhood and his sense of form. It seemed strange, incomprehensible, and wholly wrong; the thought, too, gashed through his mind: 'She is trying to put pressure on me!'
“If you think I'll give her up, Mother——” he said.
Mrs. Pendyce's fingers tightened.
“No, dear,” she answered painfully; “of course, if she loves you so much, I couldn't ask you. That's why I——”
George gave a grim little laugh.
“What on earth can you do, then? What's the good of your coming up like this? How are you to get on here all alone? I can fight my own battles. You'd much better go back.”
Mrs. Pendyce broke in: