“Where are you going, dear?”
“To see Milly, of course,” the boy answered.
“Has she written to you lately?” his mother queried.
“We haven’t written to each other at all,” he said. “I hate to write letters, and it would make so much less for us to tell each other afterwards.”
“You mustn’t go there, Jack,” she said, putting her hand lightly on his shoulder with a caressing gesture.
“Why not?” he asked hotly, the blood rushing to his face.
“You know they have nothing to do with us any more, dear, since your father and Mr. Wareham quarrelled.”
“I didn’t know it. You haven’t told me anything about what has happened. And even if they have nothing to do with us, that wouldn’t make any difference between Milly and me.”
“Isn’t it natural she should come to feel as her father and brother feel?” the mother suggested tremulously.