“Really, there is nothing, dear–––”
“Tell me when you are ready, then,” she laughed and released him.
“But there isn’t anything,” he insisted.
“Yes, Jim, there is. Do you suppose I don’t know you after all these years?”
She considered him with clear, amused eyes: “Don’t forget,” she added, “that I was only seventeen when you arrived, my son; and I have grown up with you ever since–––”
“For heaven’s sake, Helen!––” protested Sharrow Senior plaintively from the front hall below. “Can’t you gossip with Jim some other time?”
“I’m on my way, James,” she announced calmly. “Put your overcoat on.” And, to her son: “Go to the opera. Elorn will cheer you up. Isn’t that a good idea?”
“That’s––certainly––an idea.... I’ll think it over.... And, mother, if I seem solemn at times, please try to remember how rotten every fellow feels about being out of the service–––”
Her gay, derisive laughter checked him, warning him that he was not imposing on her credulity. She said smilingly: