He was still somewhat flushed but he forced a smile: “Did you find my mother agreeable, Palla?”
“Yes. And she is so beautiful with her young face and pretty white hair. She always sits between Leila and me while we sew.”
“Did you say you knew me?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Of course,” he repeated, reddening again.
No man ever has successfully divined any motive which any woman desires to conceal.
Why his mother had not spoken of Palla to him he did not know. He was aware, of course, that nobody within the circle into which he had been born would tolerate Palla’s social convictions. Had she casually 190 and candidly revealed a few of them to his mother in the course of the morning’s conversation over their sewing?
He gave Palla a quick look, encountered her slightly amused eyes, and turned redder than ever.
“You dear boy,” she said, smiling, “I don’t think your very charming mother would be interested in knowing me. The informality of ultra-modern people could not appeal to her generation.”
“Did you––talk to her about–––”