We started off at a good clip, and right away Mother said:

"Now, tell me all about it," exactly as if I'd just won an
intercollegiate, or something like that.

So I told it all to her, and was glad of the chance. I hadn't had time
to write much about it, but I could talk fast enough, and I did; and
she listened--well, she listened just exactly as another fellow would.
I mean--you didn't have to colour the thing, or shave off anything, or
fix up any dope to ease it for her, because you knew she wanted it
straight. So, naturally, you gave it to her straight--which is much
the best way, if people only realized it--for it's all got to come out
in the end. And when I was through, what do you suppose she said? Just
about the last thing you'd expect any mother to say:

"It's all perfectly great, and I don't wonder you want to go. Why, if
you didn't want to go, Jack, I should feel that I'd been the wrong
sort of mother."

Now, honestly, do you blame me? I looked down at her--I'm a good deal
taller than she is--and for a minute I wanted to get down in front of
her among the gear-shifts and put my head in her lap. But of course I
didn't do anything so idiotic as that. I just laughed and said: "Not
you,"--and put out my hand and squeezed hers--she'd left off her
motoring gloves. And she squeezed back, and looked up at me with those
black eyes of hers--and that was all there was of it, and we were off
again on details, with no scene to remember. A fellow doesn't like
scenes.