III It was not a comfortable meal for any of them, and Mrs. Champney was glad when it was finished. She offered to help Molly with the dishes, and she really wanted to do so; but when Molly refused, and she saw that Robert didn’t like the idea, she did not persist. She went into the little sitting room with Robert, and he settled her in an armchair, putting behind her shoulders a plump cushion that made her neck ache. He lit his pipe and began to move about restlessly. “You know,” he began abruptly, “Molly’s not really—slovenly.” “Robert!” cried Mrs. Champney. “What nonsense!” “Yes, I know,” he said doggedly; “but I don’t want you to think—” Mrs. Champney did not hear the rest of his speech. She was vaguely aware that he was making excuses for Molly, but she did not stop him. He had said enough. He had given her the key, and now she could understand. This was not pettiness, and Robert was not fussy. It was because he loved Molly so much that he could not endure to have another person see in her what might be construed as faults. If he had been alone with Molly, he wouldn’t have cared, he wouldn’t even have noticed these things. It was because his mother had come, and he was afraid. It is an old and a deep-rooted thing, the child’s faith in the mother’s judgment. If the mother has been honest and wise, if the child has been never deceived or disappointed by her, then, no matter how old he grows, or how far he may go from her, that old and deep-rooted faith lives in him. Robert, at twenty-six, was surer of himself than he was ever likely to be again. He was certain that all his ideas were his own, and that no living creature could influence him; yet he was terribly afraid of what his mother might think of Molly. For, after all, his mother was the standard, and the home she had made for him in his boyhood must forever be the standard of homes. She would see that this home of Molly’s was not like that. She would think— “You needn’t worry, my dear boy,” said Mrs. Champney gently. “I’m sure I’ll understand Molly.” And no more than that. It wouldn’t do to tell him what she really thought of Molly. It would sound exaggerated and insincere. It would startle him, and it might conceivably make him contrary; so she held her tongue. Presently Molly came in from the kitchen, flushed and smiling, and sank into a chair. “Take off that apron, old girl,” said Robert. “Oh, I’m sorry!” said Molly. “I always forget!” Robert took it away into the kitchen. “Too tired for a song, Molly?” he asked when he returned. “Of course I’m not!” said she, getting up again.