Harry said: “Hammond says more than I’ve told you.” “I supposed he did. ‘Apart from that.’ Apart from what?” “It’s Huggo’s character he’s writing to me about. This is what he says. ‘The boy, though young, has not a good influence in his house. If I may suggest it, he does not, during the holidays, see enough of his home.’” He folded the letter and returned it to its envelope. “Does it strike you that is going to be easy for me to answer?” “It might be easier, Harry, if your tone made it possible for us to discuss it.” He gave a sound that was glint, as it were, of the blade in his voice: “Our discussions! I am a little tired of that blind alley, Rosalie.” She said sombrely, “And I.” “Will you suggest how the letter is to be answered?” She said: “It’s plain. If you agree with Mr. Hammond, it’s plain. You can say you will stop Huggo’s invitations. Harry, we’re not by any means the only family that doesn’t spend the whole of its holidays together. It’s rather the practice nowadays, young people visiting their friends. If you think Huggo shouldn’t--you can say so.” “Yes, I can say that. Tell me this. Is it going to give him a home?” Her voice sprung from a sudden higher note. “Oh, you insist, you insist!” she cried. “You speak of blind alleys, but you insist.” He touched the letter. “This gives me ground for my insistence. This is an outsider, a stranger, appreciating how we live. This is my son, at my old school, condemned by how we live.” She interjected, “A schoolmaster’s primeval animosity--blame the parent.” “Rosalie, a parent’s primeval duty. We are responsible for the children. We have a duty towards them.” She softly struck her hands together. “Ah, how often, how often, and always worse! You said just now that I am implicated. It’s always I. You say we have a responsibility towards the children. But you don’t mean us, you mean me. Why I more than you? Why am I the accused?” He began, “Because you--” “Ah, don’t, don’t!” But he concluded. “Because you are a woman.” Her voice that had gone high went numb. She made a gesture, as to the same reason and with the same words she’d made before, of weariness with this thing, “Ah, my God, that reason!” Strike on! Look, there’s Huggo, failing again to get his remove, superannuated, withdrawn. There’s Harry having a scene with the boy. There ought to be tears. There are tears. But they’re in Harry’s voice and twice he wipes his eyes. They’re not in Huggo’s.