And still he stared at her.
“Then he's not hurt, or ill?”
“I didn't say he was. Good gracious, Rodney, isn't that bad enough?”
“But—what did you expect? He would have to go abroad some time. You knew that. I'm sorry, but—why in God's name didn't you say in your wire what the trouble was?”
“You sound exactly like Clay.”
She was entirely incapable of understanding. She stood before him, straight and resentful, and yet strangely wistful and appealing.
“I send you word that my only son is going to France, that he has married without so much as consulting me, that he is going to war and may never come back. I needed you, and you said once that when I needed you, wherever you were, you would come. So I sent for you, and now you act like—like Clay.”
“Have you any one here?”
“The servants. Good gracious, Rodney, are you worrying about that?”
“Only for you, Natalie.”