Mark frowned and straightened his shoulders. ‘She’s chucked me—that’s all,’ he said in a dazed voice. ‘They’ve poisoned her point of view between them.’ His eyes challenged hers. ‘Mother, you’ve been right all along. I suppose—you even foresaw—this!’
‘Dear, indeed I didn’t.’ Her hand closed on the rough woodwork. She so longed to gather him to her heart. ‘I was anxious—a little. But I hoped better things of her.’
‘So did I. We were a pair of fools, it seems. And there’s an end of that.’ With a gesture he dismissed the subject, and added, almost in his normal voice, ‘What about the meeting? Any luck?’
‘Yes. People are quite keen. But—you’ll hardly feel like speaking.’
‘Oh, I’ll speak all right. The King’s affairs come a long way first. I’ve had enough of false perspectives this morning. I’ll probably speak all the better for having—flung in everything.’ He sighed. ‘Give me to-morrow, Mums, to pull myself together, and I’ll do any mortal thing that’s required of me. But I can’t show up yet—you understand? And it’s you that must do the telling—as before!’
A spasm of pain crossed his face and she passed a hand over his hair.
He drew back sharply. ‘Oh—not that,’ he murmured; then checked himself and tried to smile. ‘Sorry. I’m feeling—all raw, Mother. I can’t be civil even to you.’ He could not tell her why the feel of a woman’s hand on his hair was unendurable, and would be, for some time to come.
‘I understand, dear,’ she said, and turned to go. ‘Shall I send anything to the studio?’
He shook his head. ‘Later on, perhaps. Dinner time. You might come up yourself.’
‘Of course I will.’