No matter what, Charles Maxwell had neatly trapped her into staying by
turning her own maternal responsibility against her.

"I'll get my bags," she said.

James Holden took a deep breath. He'd won this hurdle, so far so good.
Now for the next!

Mrs. Bagley found life rather unhurried in the days that followed. She
relaxed and tried to evaluate James Holden. To her unwarned mind, the boy
was quite a puzzle.

There was no doubt about his eight years, except that he did not whoop
and holler with the aimlessness of the standard eight-year-old boy. His
vocabulary was far ahead of the eight-year-old and his speech was in
adult grammar rather than halting. It was, she supposed, due to his
constant adult company; children denied their contemporaries for
playmates often take on attitudes beyond their years. Still, it was a bit
on the too-superior side to please her. It was as if he were the result
of over-indulgent parents who'd committed the mistake of letting the
child know that their whole universe revolved about him.

Yet Maxwell's letters said that he was motherless, that he was not
Maxwell's son. This indicated a probable history of broken homes and
remarriages. Mrs. Bagley thought the problem over and gave it up. It
was a home.

Things went on. They started warily but smoothly at first with Mrs.
Bagley asking almost incessantly whether Mr. Maxwell would approve of
this or that and should she do this or the other and, phrased cleverly,