“We’ll be better alone,” he said, in the stern tone which was so new to him, putting his hand upon her chair; “but perhaps you could walk if you tried,” he added, with rude sarcasm.
He drove rather than wheeled her before him into the deserted room, where all was so brilliant and warm, the light blinking in the bright brass and steel, the lamps serenely burning, everything telling of the tranquil life, unbroken by any but cheerful incidents, which had gone on there for so many years.
“Now, mother,” said Dolff, “we have got to have it out. Who is that man upstairs?”
Julia had followed them unremarked, and remained behind her mother’s chair. Dolff stood before them, in the full firelight, very erect, inspired with indignation and that sense of superiority which injury gives. It had elevated him altogether in the scale of being. His own shortcomings had fallen from his consciousness. He was aware of nothing but that he, Dolff, in reality the head of the family, had been deceived and compromised.
Mrs. Harwood took but little notice of her son. She took up her work which had been thrown upon the table and turned it over in her fingers.
“Gussy was right,” she said, “though she was a little brusque in her way of saying it. I am certainly unable to bear anything more to-night.”
“I suppose, however, you can answer my question,” said Dolff.
“Go to bed, boy,” said his mother, “and don’t worry me. We have two or three things to talk over, you and I, which are too much for to-night.”
“I am not a boy any longer,” cried Dolff; “you have made me a man. Who is it you have been hiding for years upstairs?”
She gave vent to a little fierce laugh.