that it would give too much pain to Papa, to herself, to poor old Grandmamma and certainly to his grandparents as well; and, if he insisted, to say to him imperiously, almost in a tone of command, that it was out of the question, out of the question. But for the moment she said nothing; and he said nothing either; and they walked on, along the grey ribbon of the road, which ran on through the meadows fleeing on either side to the last streak of light on the horizon, under the great starry skies. He said nothing, as if he had said all that he had to say, quietly and simply. And she was too much under the influence of that tumult of shock, surprise and disappointment. . . .
"Does it upset you, Mamma?" he asked, at last.
"It comes as a blow, Addie. . . . I never expected it. . . . "
"Can't you understand that I . . . ?"
"Understand? I don't know, Addie. We always thought . . ."
"Yes, I know: you and Papa always thought differently. I understand that it must upset you and that it is a disappointment."
"You had better speak to Papa first. . . ."
"No," he said, calmly and quietly. "I want to speak to you, first, Mamma. You know how fond I am of my father, what chums we are. But I can't speak to him first, because he would not understand.
