Then, smiling at her own folly, Margaret went to him, dominated solely by gratitude. Not knowing what else to do, she drew his tall head down to kiss him, but Lynn swerved aside, and with his face against the softness of his mother’s hair, wiped away a boyish tear.
“Lynn,” she said, tenderly, “you are very young.”
“How old were you when you married, mother?”
“Twenty-one.”
“How old was father?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Then,” persisted Lynn, with remorseless logic, “I am not too young, and neither is Iris—only she doesn’t care.”
“She may care, son.”
“No, she won’t. She despises me.”
“And why?”