“Why, so you can,” said Mrs. Hardacre, with the elaborate pretence of a little yawn, as if the subject had ceased to interest her. “You could afford it.”
“Money is no good. He won't touch a penny. I have offered.”
“Then, my dear Morland, you have done your best. If a man is idiot enough to saddle himself with other people's responsibilities and refuses to be helped when he breaks down under them, you must let him go his own way. Really I haven't got any sympathy for him.”
Morland, having warmed himself sufficiently and feeling curiously comforted by Mrs. Hardacre's wise words, sat down again near her and leant forward with his arms on his knees.
“Do you think Norma would take the same view?” he asked. After all, in spite of certain eccentricities inseparable from an unbalanced sex, she had as much fundamental common-sense as her mother. The latter looked at him sharply.
“What has Norma got to do with it?”
“I was wondering whether I ought to tell her,” said he.
Mrs. Hardacre started bolt upright in her chair. This time her interest was genuine. Nothing but her long training in a world of petty strife kept the sudden fright out of her eyes and voice.
“Tell Norma? Whatever for?”
“I thought it would be more decent,” said Morland, rather feebly.