She dragged her hands away. “I didn't think in these days boys were tied to their mothers' apron-strings.”
Jon's chin went up as if he had been struck.
“Oh! I didn't mean it, Jon. What a horrible thing to say!” Swiftly she came close to him. “Jon, dear; I didn't mean it.”
“All right.”
She had put her two hands on his shoulder, and her forehead down on them; the brim of her hat touched his neck, and he felt it quivering. But, in a sort of paralysis, he made no response. She let go of his shoulder and drew away.
“Well, I'll go, if you don't want me. But I never thought you'd have given me up.”
“I haven't,” cried Jon, coming suddenly to life. “I can't. I'll try again.”
Her eyes gleamed, she swayed toward him. “Jon—I love you! Don't give me up! If you do, I don't know what—I feel so desperate. What does it matter—all that past-compared with this?”
She clung to him. He kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her lips. But while he kissed her he saw, the sheets of that letter fallen down on the floor of his bedroom—his father's white dead face—his mother kneeling before it. Fleur's whispered, “Make her! Promise! Oh! Jon, try!” seemed childish in his ear. He felt curiously old.
“I promise!” he muttered. “Only, you don't understand.”