“Oh! I suppose,” he said slowly, “I’ve got to take this. You wouldn’t—no, of course you wouldn’t,” he sighed.
“I’ve tried to keep strict account,” she said.
David adopted a matter-of-fact tone. “I can’t deny that it’ll come in handy, just now,” he remarked. “At the present price of clothing, and with my personal exchequer in its depleted state—”
“Why,” she broke in, “has anything happened? Your mother—?”
“Cut off,” said David briefly.
“She’s cut you off? On my account? Oh—”
“No. I’ve cut her off. Temporarily. She doesn’t want me to work. I’m working. On a newspaper.”
“That’s good,” said the girl warmly. “Let’s sit down.”
They sat down. Each, however, found it curiously hard to begin again. Mary was aching to thank him, but had a dreadful fear that if she tried to, she would cry. She didn’t want to cry. She had a feeling that crying would be a highly unstrategic procedure leading to possible alarming developments. Why didn’t David say something? Finally he did make a beginning.
“Mayme.”