“Yes, Philip. But it’s wrong of you to call him a humbug. He’s a distinguished man, a good man, who stands for the best in the community.”
“He’s a hypocrite and a humbug!”
An uncontrollable rage took possession of him. It was impossible that he was to have Moses Slade, the humbug who had written that editorial about the strike, for a stepfather. No, it was outlandish, too impossible, that a good woman like his mother should be taken in by that lecherous old rip.
“Philip,” she was saying. “You don’t understand. I’ve been alone always ... except for you—ever since your father died. It would be a good marriage, a distinguished marriage, and I wouldn’t be alone in my old age.”
“You couldn’t marry him. You couldn’t marry a fat old man like that.”
He fancied that he saw her wince. “It isn’t a question of love, Philip, at our age. It’s companionship. I’m very fond of him, and he’s been thoughtful—so thoughtful all the time you were sick.”
“It’s disgusting!”
It was odd, what had happened—that he found himself for the first time in his life taking a high hand with his mother. It was an intoxicating sensation.
“If I give him up, I’ll be giving up a great opportunity for good. As a Congressman’s wife, there’s no end to the things I could accomplish....” She began to cry. “But I’ll give him up ... I’ll give him up if you won’t turn your back on your poor mother. I’d do anything for you, Philip. You’re all I’ve got, and I hoped for so much—to see you one of the great men of the church, a Christian leader, fighting on the side of God.”
“It’s no good, Ma. I won’t go back to that.”