"How can she?"
She's—she's my mother! I can't"
"Well," he said weakly, "suppose she is. She can't take you if you don't want to go."
She stepped into the hall and drew the door to, behind her. "But what can I say? What can I tell her? I—I've failed to get anything. I've been going all day—yesterday too—and there isn't anything—nothing! They all tell me I'm not far enough advanced, that I should go home and study, and come down again in a year or two. I have nothing to tell her—not even a prospect of anything. I can't—I have to I won't have even a home. I haven't any money"
He put in eagerly: "That's all right. I have plenty now—enough for both of us."
"But if I don't I may never. It may be years. I"
"I don't care—as long as you stay."
"But I can't! I can't do that. Don't you understand?"
The hall was dark; he could not see her face. But there was an almost tearful exasperation in her voice, and he hurried to plead against that tone: "Don't leave me now, when everything's beginning to go right, when I'm just beginning to be able to help you. I can't let you go. What right has she? What has she to offer"
"But you She's my mother. That's her right. I can't tell her I haven't anything to tell her. It's you—it's we—that have no right."
"Well, what can I do? What do you want me to do? Shall I see her?"
