The mother did not dispute this. She knew somewhat of his feelings
toward Carlia. These lovers' misunderstandings were not serious, she
thought to herself. All would end properly and well, in good time.

But Carlia was in Dorian's thought very often, much to his bewilderment
of heart and mind. He often debated with himself if he should not
definitely give her up, cease thinking about her as being anything
to him either now or hereafter; but it seemed impossible to do that.
Carlia's image persisted even as Mildred's did. Mildred, away from the
entanglements of the world, was safe to him; but Carlia had her life to
live and the trials and difficulties of mortality to encounter and to
overcome; and that would not be easy, with her beauty and her impulsive
nature. She needed a man's clear head and steady hand to help her, and
who was more fitting to do that than he himself, Dorian thought without
conscious egotism.

If it were possible, Dorian always spent Sunday at home. If he was on
his dry farm in the hills, he drove down on Saturday evenings. One
Saturday in midsummer, he arrived home late and tired. He put up his
team, came in, washed, and was ready for the good supper which his
mother always had for him. The mother busied herself about the kitchen
and the table.

"Come and sit down, mother," urged Dorian.

"What's the fussing about! Everything I need is here on the table.
You're tired, I see. Come, sit down with me and tell me all the news."

"The news? what news!"