Karl laughed. “You can’t be serious. Your father is terrific and so is your mother. You don’t know how lucky you are to have such parents.”
“Yes, I do,” Judy said, on the defensive at once. “I love them. I’m proud of them, but I don’t understand them. I used to think that Father was always making fun of me. But now I’m beginning to enjoy his brand of humor. This summer at Aspen has really made a big difference. He and I are pals. But Mother is different. It could be funny if it weren’t so irritating. She treats me like a subject in one of those child-study books she used to read.” Judy shook her head. “She hasn’t the faintest idea what goes on in my head, or of my feelings. At least so it appears sometimes—”
For the first time Karl looked sympathetic. “I guess that’s true of all mothers. I’m in that sort of jam myself.”
“You?” Judy said incredulously. “You’ve said your mother lives only for you!”
“Yes, that’s just the trouble,” Karl said gloomily. “It all started since Mr. Werther came into our lives. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Your father knows, from what Uncle Yahn told him the night we were at your house and what I’ve told him since.”
“I remember overhearing some things your uncle said—and that your mother met Mr. Werther through some—”
Karl nodded. “Mr. Werther calls it fate ... my mother, the hand of God.”
“Tell me the rest,” Judy urged.
“Mr. Werther asked many questions about me. Need I tell you that she plunged into the subject with enthusiasm! She showed him my photograph, the prizes I had won—” He shrugged his shoulders. “In short, she gave it as her unbiased opinion that I was a budding genius! Being pressed for more details, she admitted we were poor and with few friends.”
Karl went on. “Mr. Werther is rich. He’s married, but has no family. Music is still his passion and is bound up in his love and remembrance of my father. He offered almost at once to become my patron. You know what that means, Judy?”