He stood above her, half challenging, half defensive. "And you haven't a
word to say to me? Mother!" he adjured her.
She rose too, putting her arms about him with a kiss. "Dick! Dear Dick!"
she murmured.
"She imagines you don't like her; she says she's always felt it. And yet
she owns you've been delightful, that you've tried to make friends with
her. And I thought you knew how much it would mean to me, just now, to have
this uncertainty over, and that you'd actually been trying to help me, to
put in a good word for me. I thought it was you who had made her decide."
"I?"
"By your talk with her the other day. She told me of your talk with her."
His mother's hands slipped from his shoulders and she sank back into her
seat. She felt the cruelty of her silence, but only an inarticulate murmur
found a way to her lips. Before speaking she must clear a space in the
suffocating rush of her sensations. For the moment she could only repeat
inwardly that Clemence Verney had yielded before the final test, and that
she herself was somehow responsible for this fresh entanglement of fate.
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