"Yes, Addie, then I thought . . . of my own! But perhaps it is not all as I picture it, Addie . . . and perhaps it is all too late . . ."
Then he took her in his arms; and she felt his young, sturdy, boyish body against hers, felt it all at once, as a pillar of strength.
"Too late? Why should it be, Mamma? Let us first hear what Papa thinks. Too late? No, Mamma. If you see it in this light for the first time now, why . . . why should it be too late?"
She threw her arms round his neck and laid her head on his shoulder:
"I don't know, dear. I thought . . . I thought that it would be a good thing . . . for everybody . . . for all of us . . . Perhaps I am wrong. I can't tell . . . I am tired, dear. Leave me here by myself. Have your dinner with Papa: I don't want any dinner, I am tired, I sha'n't come down . . . Hark, there's Papa coming in. Go and tell him that I am tired. Go now, go at once. . . . I can't say: perhaps it is not as I thought, Addie, and perhaps . . . perhaps it is all . . . too late!"
She saw his eyes grow softer, full of pity; he pressed her to him.
"Addie!" she suddenly implored. "Whatever I may lose, never, never let me lose you! For all the rest is perhaps illusion . . . and all too late, too late . . . But you . . . you are real, you exist!"
