“Mother?”
“Yes, dear?” She said it absently.
Jimmie was encouraged. “I want to ask you about something.”
“Go ahead.”
“I trust you won’t be disturbed.”
She looked at him with sudden rigidity. Her face, an older image of Sarah’s, seemed strong. Its strength came, however, from the adjustments she had forced upon her character, and it was, therefore, the mere strength of compulsion, not the strength of wisdom. “I do hope it’s nothing about the war!”
“No. It’s about Sarah.”
“What about Sarah?” She became querulous, defensive.
“About—some egg named Harry.”
That precipitated a long silence. The fingers stopped knitting, gripped the needles harder, and went on, digging their points. “That—I’d rather not discuss.”