"I've been glad to. Every hour at my machine has been a happy one. I've never begrudged what I've done." "Well, anyhow, I shan't need to take any more support from you, nor will my son." Sue laughed grimly. "I don't know about that, mother. I'm afraid he's going to miss his chance to marry a rich girl. And he's never been very successful in making his own way." Mrs. Milo would not be diverted from the main issue. "I repeat, Susan: You disobey me, as you've threatened to, and I'm done with you. Understand that. You'll go your way, and I will go mine." Sue nodded. She understood. Her mother had announced her ultimatum to Farvel, and he had accepted it. Mrs. Milo could not return to the Rectory. But if Sue continued her work there, it meant that she would enjoy a happy companionship with the clergyman--a companionship unhindered by the presence of the elder woman. Such a state of affairs might even end in marriage. And now Sue knew it was marriage that her mother feared. "Very well, mother." "Ah, you like the separation plan!" "We're as wide apart in our ideas as the poles." "I have certainly been very much mistaken in you. Though I thought I knew my own daughter! But--you belong with the Farvels, and it's a pity she has run away. Perhaps she'll turn up later on." She spoke quietly, but she was livid with anger. "I shall not be there to interfere with your friendship. I am going to the hotel now. You can direct my poor boy to me, if it isn't too much trouble." "So you are going." Then smiling wistfully, "But who will fuss over you when you're not sick? And coax you out of your nerves? And wait on you like a lady's maid? And how will you be able to keep an eye on me, mother? 'Who's telephoning you, Susan?' And 'Who's your letter from, darling?'" Then with sarcasm, "Oh, hen-pecked Susan, is it possible that you'll be able to go to Church without a chaperone? That you can go down town without having to report home at half-hour intervals?" "Well! Well! Well!" marveled Mrs. Milo. She walked to the window before retorting further. Then, with a return to the old methods of playing for sympathy, "And here I've thought that you were contented and happy with me! But--it seems that your mother isn't enough." The attempt failed. "Was your mother enough?" demanded Sue. Mrs. Milo came strolling back. Was it possible that tactics invariably efficacious in the past would utterly fail her today? She made a second attempt. "But--but do you realize," she faltered, with what seemed deep feeling; "--your father died when Wallace was so little. If you hadn't helped me, how would I have gotten on? If you'd married----" "Couldn't I have helped you?" "But I had Wallace so late. And I'd have been alone. What would I have done without my daughter?"