"I suppose I'd better be getting ready."
As he stooped to kiss her his mother slipped an arm around his neck.
"Mother's little boy."
George steadied his voice.
"Good-night, Dad."
His father filled his pipe reflectively.
"Good-night, George."
No word of sympathy; no sympathy at all, beyond a fugitive, half-frightened hint from his mother, because he had run boldly against a fashion of thinking; little more, really.
He softly closed the door of his room, the last time he would ever do that! He sat on the edge of the bed. He took Sylvia's photograph from his pocket and studied it with a deliberate lack of sentiment. He fancied her desirable lips framing epithets of angry contempt and those other words to which he had given his own significance.
"You'll not forget."