“Why do you ask?”
“I have a wonderful reason—tell me?” she demanded.
A curious expression came over his face, half serious, half amused. Carefully taking his hand from hers and lifting her golden head from his shoulder, he arose from the divan.
The pillow she had placed behind his head slipped noiselessly to the floor, and walking a few steps, he turned his back to the fireplace and took his stand in the middle of the rug.
Judicially he placed his hands behind his back and looked down upon her.
“You will learn,” he answered cryptically.
“What do you mean?” she asked in a puzzled tone.
“There is wisdom, Clarinda, that comes to the old. This wisdom is sometimes uncanny in its analytical possibilities.”
“You don’t reply to my questions,” she said as she turned the full light of her eyes upon him. “Do you still love mother as when you began?”
“You asked me that before, and I told you,” he answered slowly. Then as an afterthought added, “What is the trouble?”