He sat
up and fiercely brushed his eyes.
"I won't be a fool--any more. It shan't be too late. I'll make you live.
We'll never leave one another again."
"Dear boy, it can't be like that. Think how splendid it is that we have had
this time now. Think what it might have been if I had gone and we had never
known one another. But tell me, Peter, what are you going to do with your
life afterwards--what are you going to be?"
"I want to write books"--he stared at the golden cloud--"to be a novelist.
I daresay I can't--I don't know--but I'd rather do that than anything....
Father wants me to be a solicitor. I'm with Aitchinson now--I shall never
be a good one."
Then he turned almost fiercely away from the window.
"But never mind about me, mother. It's you I want to hear about. I'm going
to take this on now. It's my responsibility. I want to know about you."
"There's nothing to know, dear. I've been ill for a great many years now.
It's more nerves than anything, I suppose. I think I've never had the
courage to stand up against it--a stronger woman would have got the better
of it, I expect. But I wasn't always like this," she added laughing a
little far away ghost of a laugh--"Go and look in that drawer--there,
in that cupboard--amongst my handkerchiefs--there where those old fans
are--you'll find some old programmes there--Those old yellow papers.
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