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It was always like that. He hurt her even from a distance. Oh, why couldn't she be tough and cut loose? It was partly Mother's fault. She'd carry on terribly if she sent him to a Place. But he wouldn't mind—not after the first day or two. He'd forget all about her, all about them both. Then she'd be really free and have a chance of making a life for herself. But even without Mother she couldn't do that. He was all she had.

At this point she shook herself and took out her powder compact. She couldn't reappear with wet eyes. He might think she was a disconsolate widow, and keep his distance. Someday she must let him know that Phil had been dead five years. She walked out smiling brightly.

"Thank you so much. I'm glad to have been able to get that off."

"How old is your little boy?"

He was helping her into the car, so it was easy to pretend she hadn't heard. The time had not come yet—if it should ever come—that he need know that Michael was twelve. She said as they drove on, "Mrs. Winrow's a very charming person, isn't she?"