“I will tell unto you,” spoke the grandmother, going towards her. “Better, madame, that you should know. I say not English well, but—”
“I understand you.”
“Gozo—our boy—go way—mek soldier—fight Lussians. He angry account you—therefore he be soldier—”
“Account—me! Why, I don’t understand—that is—Yes—I think I do understand. He was opposed to his father’s marriage?”
“He love his mother,” said the old woman, and then began to tremble, for Mrs. Kurukawa had hidden her face in her hands. The grandmother spoke uncertainly.
“Pray egscuse—I sawry—ve’y sawry. Gozo—Gozo—bad.” She brought the word out as if it hurt her to admit this much of her best-loved grandchild.
“No, no,” said Mrs. Kurukawa, softly. “He is not bad. I understand him. Why, it was only natural.” She moved appealingly towards her husband. “Don’t you remember, Kiyo, I feared this—that the children might not want me.”
“And I told you,” said he, quickly, “that it was not my children you were marrying, but myself.”
“You are angry with that boy,” she cried.
“Angry! I will never forgive him!”