Lady Tatham waited a
little, then went up to him, and took him by the arms--her eyes smiling
into his, without a word.
He disengaged himself, almost roughly.
"I wish I knew something about art!" he said discontentedly. "And why
should anybody want to be independent all their lives--economically
independent?"
He slowly repeated the words, evidently from another mouth, in a land of
wonder.
"That's the young woman of to-day, Harry."
"Isn't it better to be happy?" he broke out, and then was silent.
"Harry!--you didn't propose to her?"
He laughed out.
"Propose to her! As if I dare! I haven't even made friends with her
yet--though I thought I had. She talks of things I don't understand."
"Not philosophy and stuff?"
"Lord, no!" he said, shrugging his shoulders. "It's much worse. It's as
though she despised--" He paused again.
"Courting?" said his mother at last, her head against his shoulder.
"Well, anything of that sort, in comparison with art--and making a
career--and earning money--and things of that kind. Oh, I daresay I'm a
stupid ass!--"
Lady Tatham laughed softly.
"You can buy all her pictures, Harry."
"I don't believe she'd like it a bit, if she knew!" he said, gloomily.
The young man's chagrin and bewilderment were evident. His mother could
only guess at the causes.
"How long have you known her, Harry?"
"Just two months."
Lady Tatham took him again by the shoulders, and looked into his face.
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