For a moment, a swiftly passing moment, it was the old vital Steve who spoke; the Babcock of a year ago; then, in quick recession, the mood passed.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, 245 girl. I can’t go, I tell you. I haven’t the money.”
“I’ll see that you have the money, Steve.”
“You?”
“I’ve been teaching for eight years, and living at home all the while.”
The man, surprised out of his self centredness, looked wonderingly, unbelievingly, at her.
“You never told me, Mollie.”
“No, I never saw the need before.”
The man’s look of wonder passed. Another––fearful, dependent, the look of a child in the dark––took its place.
“But––alone, Mollie! A strange land, a strange people, a strange tongue! Oh, I hate myself, girl, hate myself! I’ve lost my nerve. I can’t go alone. I can’t.”