Peter junior, who never interrupted (though he, too, had a quick mind), knew as well as if she had gone on that his mother meant:  “I don’t know if Ena will think a homemade coverlet of crocheted lace smart enough for a real, live marchesa, but I feel I should like to make my daughter some bridal present with my own hands.”

“Oh, yes, she’s certain to.  It’ll be beautiful, if it’s anything like the one you did for me,” Petro assured her when the long pause had told him that mother had no more to add.  “Just think of Ena getting married!”

“Yes, indeed,” sighed Mrs. Rolls.  “And it seems only a little while since you were both—–­”

Peter knew that the missing word was “children.”  “Anyhow, she’s happy, I think,” he reflected aloud, a far-away look in his eyes.

“I guess so,” mother agreed.  “She’ll like real well being a—–­ I wish—–­”

“Marchesa" was easy for Peter to supply mentally, and would have been much easier for him to pronounce than it was for Mrs. Rolls, who had had small education in the management even of her native tongue.

She made dear little, cozy, common mistakes in grammar and other things.  Peter adored her mistakes, and Ena was ashamed of them.  But in those good manners which are taught by the heart and not by the head, no queen could have given Mrs. Rolls lessons.

As for the next sentence, beginning with “I wish—–­” and ending in the air, that was more difficult.  Even mother, so placid, seemingly so contented, must have many wishes.  And so Petro ventured on a “What?”

“I wisht I could be just as sure you—–­”

“As sure that I’m happy?”

“Yes, dear.”

Peter had been looking at his mother’s feet in those blue Japanese slippers, whose cheapness was rather pathetic. (With all their money, she never enjoyed wearing expensive things herself.  It was as if she felt lost and un-at-home in them.) But suddenly he glanced up.  The pink-and-white face was as calm as usual, yet her tone had meant something in particular.  A chord seemed to vibrate in his soul, as if she had softly, yet purposely, touched it with her finger.

“Don’t you believe I am happy?” he asked.

“Not—­just like you used to be,” she said.  Their eyes met as she lifted hers from her work and began rolling it up, finished.  She blushed beautifully, like a girl.

Peter pressed both the little feet between his hands, pressed them almost convulsively.  He did not stop to think how strong his fingers were, though Logan had had cause to realize their strength two hours ago.  The pressure hurt the small toes so lightly covered.  And the mother of this strong, though slight, young man gloried in the hurt.  She was proud of it, proud of Peter, the one thing in the world she felt was really hers.

“Mother!” he said in a low, tense voice. “What told you?”

“Why—­just bein’ your mother, I guess.  I was wonderin’—–­”