SANCTUARY
Mrs. Peyton sat revolving her muff on a meditative hand; at length she said: "I'm not sure I think it quite nice of him."
Her son halted before her with an incredulous stare. "Mother!" he exclaimed.
The rebuke sent a blush to her forehead. "Well—considering your friendship—and everything."
"Everything? What do you mean by everything? The fact that he has more ability than I have and is therefore more likely to succeed? The fact that he needs the money and the success a deuced sight more than any of us? Is that the reason you think he ought n't to have entered? Mother! I never heard you say an ungenerous thing before."
The blush deepened to crimson, and she rose with a nervous laugh. "It was ungenerous," she conceded. "I suppose I'm jealous for you. I hate these competitions!"
Her son smiled reassuringly. "You
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