Accordingly Sally asked him whether—she was careful to put the question in as natural a form as possible and she tried to make it seem casual, too—she asked him whether there was anything he would like to have them do for him. It is not likely that she succeeded thoroughly in either of these attempts, for Charlie only looked startled and answered that he didn't think there was anything. And he added that he was a little anxious about his reports. If they were not as good as they might be, he hoped that mother would not be too much disappointed. And Sally had shrugged a little and smiled a little and shown a little of the contempt which she always felt for lying. She did not know that Charlie was lying, but she felt that he was, and she could not have helped that little smile of contempt to save her life. But Charlie did not recognize her smile as one of contempt. He went off to see Patty, smiling and patting himself on the back for having thrown Sally off the scent so cleverly.
It is not to be supposed that either Mrs. Ladue or Sally was so lacking in natural affection that she let Charlie go on the way he was going without a struggle—without several struggles. Not that they knew just the way he was going, but they knew very well that they had lost all their control over him; the control which is due to a mutual love. It was Charlie who had shown a lack of natural affection. His mother had struggled in vain against that lack and against the effect of Patty's indulgence. As for Sally, if the love and regard of ten or twelve years before, a love very like a mother's, had been changed insensibly into the tolerant contempt of the strong for the weak—not always perfectly tolerant, I am afraid—Charlie had only himself to blame. But, as for blaming himself—pfooh! Much he cared!
CHAPTER XIV[ToC]
Charlie stood by the mantel in Patty's room, in such an attitude as he imagined that Everett might take, under similar circumstances, and he was trying to look troubled. It was an imitation mantel by which he stood, being no more than a marble slab set upon iron brackets; for the real mantel, of wood, which had surrounded a real fireplace of generous proportions, had been removed when the fireplace had been bricked up and a register inserted. That register, of the regulation black, now stared at Miss Patty as she sat facing Charlie, and it emitted a thin column of faintly warm air. Altogether, it was a poor substitute for a fire and a gloomy thing to contemplate. Charlie's attitude, too, as has been intimated, was but an imitation. His trouble was no imitation, though, and his attempt to look troubled succeeded beyond his fondest hopes.
Patty had been looking at him for some time, growing more anxious every minute. Charlie had said nothing at all, but had kept his eyes fixed upon the distance; upon such distance as he could get through Patty's window. That was not so very much, the distance being limited by the house across the street, perhaps sixty feet away. At intervals he sighed heavily, the time between sighs apparently—to Patty, at least, his only hearer—apparently occupied by equally heavy thinking.
At last Patty could stand it no longer. "What is it, Charlie, dear?" she asked in a voice which trembled a little. "What is the matter, dear boy?"
Charlie forced a smile, his frown disappeared for an instant, and he brought his gaze back, with a great effort, a superhuman effort, to things near at hand: eventually to Patty herself.