'My dear Alice, children always love their mother, whether they see
much of her or not. It's an instinct.'

'Who told you that?'

'You goose. It was yourself.'

'I've lost faith in it.'

He thinks it wise to sound a warning note. 'Of course you must give
them a little time.'

'Robert, Robert. Not another minute. That's not the way people ever
love me. They mustn't think me over first or anything of that sort. If
they do I'm lost; they must love me at once.'

'A good many have done that,' Robert says, surveying her quizzically
as if she were one of Amy's incompleted works.

'You are not implying, Robert, that I ever--. If I ever did I always
told you about it afterwards, didn't I? And I _certainly_ never
did it until I was sure you were comfortable.'

'You always wrapped me up first,' he admits.

'They were only boys, Robert--poor lonely boys. What are you looking
so solemn about, Robert?'

'I was trying to picture you as you will be when you settle down.'