“You are most kind, most sagacious,” said Eugene slowly; “but it is impossible.”
“Why is it impossible?”
“What demand have I on you?” he said civilly, yet haughtily.
“Every one that is in trouble has a claim to hospitality,” said Mrs. Hardy warmly. “We have to help each other in this world. We could not go on if we did not.”
“And what is your imagination about my trouble?” he asked.
Mrs. Hardy had offended the proud little lad, but she did not stop to choose her next words. “Your trouble is that you are old before your time,” she said hurriedly. “You are just like a graybeard. Only the bitter in life seems to be left for you. Come to me, and let me make you a child again;” and she seized one of his slim hands in hers.
To her distress, nay, her horror, the boy drew back from her with a slight sneer. “Madam,” he said icily, “my grandfather often said to me, ‘Distrust women; you may have the happiness to amuse them for a time, but later on they will throw you aside.’ I have not great age myself, but so far I think he has reason.”
“And do you think that I only want to amuse myself in taking care of you?” gasped Mrs. Hardy.