And so Petro ventured on a "What?"
"I wisht I could be just as sure _you_---"
"As sure that I'm happy?"
"Yes, dear."
Peter had been looking at his mother's feet in those blue Japanese
slippers, whose cheapness was rather pathetic. (With all their money,
she never enjoyed wearing expensive things herself. It was as if she
felt lost and un-at-home in them.) But suddenly he glanced up. The
pink-and-white face was as calm as usual, yet her tone had meant
something in particular. A chord seemed to vibrate in his soul, as if
she had softly, yet purposely, touched it with her finger.
"Don't you believe I am happy?" he asked.
"Not--just like you used to be," she said. Their eyes met as she
lifted hers from her work and began rolling it up, finished. She
blushed beautifully, like a girl.
Peter pressed both the little feet between his hands, pressed them
almost convulsively. He did not stop to think how strong his fingers
were, though Logan had had cause to realize their strength two hours
ago. The pressure hurt the small toes so lightly covered. And the
mother of this strong, though slight, young man gloried in the hurt.
She was proud of it, proud of Peter, the one thing in the world she
felt was really hers.
Pages:
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363