“I got her, Peter,” she shaded the pronoun. “But this, considering ages and circumstances, is a rather more difficult order!”
“Wouldn’t you like to get Glen Darrow for me, Madame President?”
She straightened the magazines on the table into a trim pile, evening the edges carefully. “Yes, certainly, Peter,” she said pleasantly. “I will be very glad to ask her, of course.”
“Come here!” It was imperious, impertinent, cajoling. “Look me in the eye, Madame President! Wouldn’t you like to get Glen Darrow for me?”
“My son,” said his mother huskily, her keen gaze dimming for an instant, “there’s nothing in the world I’d like so much.”
“’Atta girl, Eugenia,” said her only child cordially. “You’re a good egg. You’n me both.”
She considered him gravely. “You are serious?”
“Heaven helping me, Mrs. Parker, I shall never be serious, but I want Glen Darrow more than I can possibly express to you without becoming unduly lyrical.”
She regarded him in silence. Never, since his tiny childhood, had he given her so much happiness as in the weeks following her arrival at the Bella Vista. He was taking an interest which all his persiflage could not disguise in his mill; he had fallen in love with a fine and worthwhile young woman; and in the crowded hours of glorious life which she had so ardently desired for him he had shown his mettle. He had faced hideous danger blithely and gallantly, risking his life, very nearly giving his life—that happy and heedless life which she had deplored as worthless—for mill workers of whose existence he had been unaware a few weeks earlier.
Peter had changed. Peter had developed. She was not going to delude herself with exaggerations; sudden conversions seldom lasted, but she had evidence, at least, of his potentialities, and that gave her faith and patience. She put on her stern gray felt sport hat and rang for her car, and her chin with the faint, persistent little beard (which she sincerely meant to be rid of whenever—if ever—she had a day to spare!) looked even more salient and determined than usual.