you never told me . . . I didn't know," and when he had finished," she said abruptly, "That wasn't the plan I had for you, Philip; I've been talking with Reverend Castor and he thinks we could arrange to get you a good congregation."
"No . . . that's all finished. It's no use even talking of it."
She went on, ignoring him. "And if that didn't please you, I thought . . . well, you could take the restaurant because, well . . ." she looked away from him, "you see, I'm thinking of getting married."
She saw his face grow red with anger. "Not to that humbug, Moses Slade!"
"Yes, Philip. But it's wrong of you to call him a humbug. He's a distinguished man, a good man, who stands for the best in the community."
"He's a hypocrite and a humbug!"
An uncontrollable rage took possession of him. It was impossible that he was to have Moses Slade, the humbug who had written that editorial about the strike, for a stepfather. No, it was outlandish, too impossible, that a good woman like his mother should be taken in by that lecherous old rip.
"Philip," she was saying. "You don't understand. I've been alone always . . . except for you—ever since your father died. It would be a good marriage, a distinguished marriage, and I wouldn't be alone in my old age."
"You couldn't marry him. You couldn't marry a fat old man like that."
He fancied that he saw her wince. "It isn't a question of love, Philip, at our age. It's companionship.
