THEY HATED MYSTERY
Mrs. Ruth Burnham was settled in a drawing-room car, surrounded by every comfort and luxury that money and modern ideas can furnish for a long journey; and her son Erskine stood looking down on her with a face only half satisfied.
It occurred to him as a matter of astonishment that, with the single exception of her one trip homeward, after her ministrations to Alice, and while he was abroad, his mother had not, since he could remember, taken a journey without him. And here she was, starting for New York, and planning for a stay of indefinite length, while he was remaining at home. He did not wholly like it.
"It does not seem quite right, mamma," he said, with a smile that had almost wistfulness in it. "I am not used to seeing you off, you know. It seems as though I should be going along to look after your comfort."
"You have already done that, Erskine; I am sure a queen could not be more carefully provided for."
"And you have really no idea when you are coming home?"
"I could not plan for it, dear. Your Aunt Flossy is a woman of many schemes, you know, and it is long since I visited her; not since you and I were there together, years ago."
"It was always 'you and I together,'" he said, discontentedly, as though he almost resented this sudden independence of him.
"And this other—person—whoever she is, you will not let her absorb you? I can see how she will wear you out, without me to manage for you. She is imperious and selfish, of course."
His mother smiled on him tenderly, and a little sadly. "How did you learn that, Erskine?"