"Now, mother--"
"Wait, dearest," she said; and though he stood stone cold, she lifted
her arms, put them round him again, and pressed her cheek lightly to
his. "Oh, you do look so troubled, poor dear! One thing you couldn't
doubt, beloved boy: you know I could never care for anything in the
world as I care for you--never, never!"
"Now, mother--"
She released him, and stepped back. "Just a moment more, dearest. I
want you to read this first. We can get at things better." She
pressed into his hand the envelope she had brought with her, and as he
opened it, and began to read the long enclosure, she walked slowly to
the other end of the room; then stood there, with her back to him, and
her head drooping a little, until he had finished.
The sheets of paper were covered with Eugene's handwriting.
George Amberson will bring you this, dear Isabel. He is waiting while
I write. He and I have talked things over, and before he gives this
to you he will tell you what has happened. Of course I'm rather
confused, and haven't had time to think matters out very definitely,
and yet I believe I should have been better prepared for what took
place to-day--I ought to have known it was coming, because I have
understood for quite a long time that young George was getting to
dislike me more and more.
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