“No. My mother is not that kind.”
“My mother,” repeated Helge hotly. “You mean to say that mother would have done so—that she is tactless. I don’t think you are just to my mother—surely, for my sake, you ought not to speak like that of her.”
“Helge! What do you mean?” Jenny looked at him, astonished. “I have not said a word about your mother.”
“You said, my mother is not like that.”
“I did not. I said my mother.”
“No; you said my mother. You may not like her—although I cannot see what reason you have so far not to—but you should remember that you speak about my mother, and that I am fond of her as she is.”
“Oh, Helge! I don’t understand how....” She stopped, as she felt tears filling her eyes. It was so strange a thing for Jenny Winge to shed tears that she felt ashamed of it, and was quiet.
But he had seen it: “Jenny, my darling, have I hurt you? Oh, my own girl—what a misery it is! You can see for yourself—no sooner have I come back, but it begins again.” He clenched his hands and cried: “I hate it—I hate my home!”
“My darling boy, you must not say so. Don’t let it upset you like that.” She took him in her arms. “Helge, dearest, listen to me—what has it to do with us?—it cannot make any difference in us”—and she kissed and petted him till he stopped crying and shivering.