“She said I had no heart.”
“The idea!”
“Maybe I didn’t have then, but I’m sure I have now.”
He walked back and forth restlessly. Margaret knew that the griefs of youth are cruelly keen, because they come well in the lead of the strength to bear them. She was about to offer the usual threadbare consolation, “You will forget in time,” when she remembered the stock of which Lynn came.
His mother, who had carried a secret wound for more than twenty-five years, who was she, to talk about forgetting, and, of all others, to her son?
Gratitude was still dominant, though in her heart of hearts she knew that she was selfish. Lynn felt the lack of sympathy, and became conscious, for the first time in his life, that her tenderness had a limit.
“Mother,” he said, suddenly, “did you love father?”
“Why do you ask, son?”
“Because I want to know.”