“You mean it, Philip?”
“Certainly. I was sitting here in the dusk thinking it over—thinking how glad I am that it was in my power to do this for you—and him. No matter what the outcome may be, I shall not regret it for one instant.”
Her hand caressed his cheek softly: “Won't you come down to supper?”
“What's the use? I couldn't eat now.”
“But you will not see Anson again. It may be years before he comes back to us. Do come down.”
“I shall go with him to the train. Won't that do just as well? I wish to think a while longer, here in the dark by myself.”
“I know he will be delighted to have you,” she said. “Poor Anson! It has been a terrible blow to him.”
Philip smiled queerly to himself. He doubted the delight Anson would derive from his company just then, but he made no response.
“It seems unfair to ask any more of you,” his mother said with reluctance, “but Anson is almost penniless. If you could only help just a little it might make it easier for him.”
Philip gathered up the bills that still lay on the table where he had thrown them. “Here are one or two hundred dollars,” he said, “he may as well have them. They are of no use to me, and you will feel so much better to have him go, if you know he has something to fall back on!”