“Oh, George; I can't see you cast off from us! I must be with you!”
George felt her trembling all over. He got up and walked to the window. Mrs. Pendyce's voice followed:
“I won't try to separate you, George; I promise, dear. I couldn't, if she loves you, and you love her so!”
Again George laughed that grim little laugh. And the fact that he was deceiving her, meant to go on deceiving her, made him as hard as iron.
“Go back, Mother!” he said. “You'll only make things worse. This isn't a woman's business. Let father do what he likes; I can hold on!”
Mrs. Pendyce did not answer, and he was obliged to look round. She was sitting perfectly still with her hands in her lap, and his man's hatred of anything conspicuous happening to a woman, to his own mother of all people, took fiercer fire.
“Go back!” he repeated, “before there's any fuss! What good can you possibly do? You can't leave father; that's absurd! You must go!”
Mrs. Pendyce answered:
“I can't do that, dear.”
George made an angry sound, but she was so motionless and pale that he dimly perceived how she was suffering, and how little he knew of her who had borne him.