“Why, good heavens, mother,” he began, “we should have been in it last May. We should—”
She was holding out both hands to him, piteously.
“You wouldn't go, would you?”
“I might have to go,” he evaded.
“You wouldn't, Graham. You're all I have. All I have left to live for. You wouldn't need to go. It's ridiculous. You're needed here. Your father needs you.”
“He needs me the hell of a lot,” the boy muttered. But he went over and, stooping down, kissed her trembling face.
“Don't worry about me,” he said lightly. “I don't think we've got spine enough to get into the mix-up, anyhow. And if we have—”
“You won't go. Promise me you won't go.”
When he hesitated she resorted to her old methods with both Clayton and the boy. She was doing all she could to make them happy. She made no demands, none. But when she asked for something that meant more than life to her, it was refused, of course. She had gone through all sorts of humiliation to get him that money, and this was the gratitude she received.
Graham listened. She was a really pathetic figure, crouched in her low chair, and shaken with terror. She must have rather a bad time; there were so many things she dared not take to his father. She brought them to him instead, her small grievances, her elaborate extravagances, her disappointments. It did not occur to him that she transferred to his young shoulders many of her own burdens. He was only grateful for her confidence, and a trifle bewildered by it. And she had helped him out of a hole just now.