George rose from his desk just then and Lute hurried to the door. I smiled. I imagined his arrival in our kitchen and how he would explode the sensational news upon his unsuspecting wife.
But I was not altogether calm, though I did my best to appear so, when I entered that kitchen at a quarter past twelve. Lute was seated in a chair by the window, evidently watching and waiting. He sprang up as I entered.
“Set down,” ordered Dorinda, who was taking a clam pie from the oven. She merely nodded when I came in. Dorinda often spoke in meeting against “sinful pride”; yet she had her share of pride, sinful or not. She would not ask questions or deign to appear excited, not she.
“But Dorinda,” cried her husband, “it's Ros. Don't you see?”
“You set down, Lute Rogers. Well,” turning to me, “dinner's ready, if you are.”
“I shall be in a few minutes,” I answered. “I want to see Mother first.”
Breaking the news to Mother was a duty which I dreaded. But it turned out to be not dreadful at all. Mother was surprised, of course, but she did not offer a single objection. Her principal feeling seemed to be curiosity as to my reasons for the sudden change.
“Of course, Roscoe, if you are happier I shall be, too,” she said. “I know it must have been very dull for you here. My conscience has troubled me not a little all these years. I realize that a man, a young man like you, needs an interest in life; he wants something more than the care and companionship of a useless creature like me.”
“Mother, how often have I told you not to speak like that.”
“But he does. Many times, when you and I have been here together, I have been on the point of urging you to leave me and go back to the world and take your place in it. More than once, you remember, dear, I have hinted at such a thing, but you have always chosen not to understand the hints, and I have been so weak and selfish that I have not pressed them. I am glad you have done this, if it seems right to you. But does it? Are you sure?”