"No," he said abruptly. "I can do that."
"You don't know about their bottles."
"I do know . . . I've done them on the nights Naomi went to choir practice. I don't want you to come . . . I want to be alone with them."
"Philip . . . I'm your' mother. . . . It's my—place. . . ."
"I want to be alone with them. . . ."
He looked so wild that she seized his shoulders and said, "You're not thinking anything foolish, are you?"
"I don't know what I'm thinking. I can't bear to think of her running off like that. I can't bear to think of how we treated her. . . . If you mean that I'm thinking of killing myself, I'm not . . . I can't do that. I've got to think of little Philip and Naomi. If it wasn't for them . . . I might do anything."
Suddenly in a wild hysteria, she put her arms about him, crying out, "Philip! Philip! My boy! Don't say such things—it's not you who's talking. It's some one else . . . it's a stranger . . . somebody I never knew . . . somebody I didn't bear out of my own body." She shook him passionately. "Philip! Philip! Wake up! Be your old self . . . my son. Do you hear me, darling? You do love me still. Tell me what's in your heart . . . what the voice of your real self is saying."
In the violence of her action, the pink lace cap slipped back on her head, exposing a neat row of curl-papers, festoons and garlands (thought Philip in disgust) of their second honeymoon. He didn't resist her. He simply remained cold and frozen, one cold, thin hand thrust into his pocket for warmth. Then suddenly the hand touched something which roused a
