Miss Vance lifted her eyebrows. "Nothing can need a
lie," she quoted calmly. Presently she said earnestly,
"Frances, you are making a mistake. Somebody ought to
tell you the truth. There is no reason why your whole
being should be buried in that man. He should stand on
his own feet, now. You can be all that he needs as a
mother, and yet live out your own life. It is broader
than his will ever be. At your age, and with your
capabilities, you should marry again. Think of the many
long years that are before you."

"I have thought of them," said Mrs. Waldeaux slowly. "I
have had lovers who came close to me as friends, but I
never for a moment was tempted to marry one of them.
No, Clara. When the devil drove my father to hand me
over--innocent child as I was--to a man like Robert
Waldeaux, he killed in me the capacity for that kind of
love. It is not in me." She turned her strenuous face
to the sea and was silent. "It is not in me," she
repeated after a while. "I have but one feeling, and
that is for my boy. It is growing on me absurdly, too."
She laughed nervously. "I used to be conscious of other
people in the world, but now, if I see a boy or man, I
see only what George was or will be at his age; if I read
a book, it only suggests what George will say of it. I
am like one of those plants that have lost their own sap
and color, and suck in their life from another. It
scares me sometimes."