Floyd was angry, injured. “Perhaps you’ve been writing to her all this time.”
“Perhaps I have.”
“I suppose she was very glad to see you.”
“I don’t know. I was mad to see her. I couldn’t wait; I went straight there.”
There was a look of passion in Martin’s face. Floyd hated him. He turned and entered the gate. Martin was at his elbow.
“I’m coming in to see your father.”
At dinner Martin kept up a fire of witty criticisms. Floyd was silent, preoccupied.
“Your house has been shut up for some time. Where is your mother?”
“In Nantucket. She loves the shores where her ancestors landed, in sailing vessels.”
“Your mother’s pride of nationality is quite natural; I also feel it.”