"And I would go to see you—quite often."
She tried to see his face; but it was hid against her.
"It would be better," she whispered, "for you."
"Oh, mother," he sobbed, sitting back in her lap, "what would you do without me?"
It was a crucial question—so appealing in unselfish love, so vividly portraying her impending desolation, that for an instant her resolution departed. What would she do without him? God knew! But she commanded herself.
"I would not have to work," she said.
He turned her face to the light—looked deep in her eyes, searching for the truth. She met his glance without wavering. Then, discerning the effect, deliberately, when his eyes were alight with filial love and concern, at the moment when the sacrifice was most clear and most poignant, she lied.
"I would be happier," she said, "without you."
A moan escaped him.
"Will you go with the curate?" she asked.