I don't think I could do it even now, not even from you.
I am useful to you, dad--I do help you?"
There had crept a terror into Tommy's voice. Peter felt the little
hands upon his arm trembling.
"Help me? Why, you work like a nigger--like a nigger is supposed
to work, but doesn't. No one--whatever we paid him--would do half
as much. I don't want to make your head more swollen than it is,
young woman, but you have talent; I am not sure it is not genius."
Peter felt the little hands tighten upon his arm.
"I do want this paper to be a success; that is why I strum upon the
piano to please Clodd. Is it humbug?"
"I am afraid it is; but humbug is the sweet oil that helps this
whirling world of ours to spin round smoothly. Too much of it
cloys: we drop it very gently."
"But you are sure it is only humbug, Tommy?" It was Peter's voice
into which fear had entered now. "It is not that you think he
understands you better than I do--would do more for you?"
"You want me to tell you all I think of you, and that isn't good
for you, dad--not too often. It would be you who would have
swelled head then."
"I am jealous, Tommy, jealous of everyone that comes near you.
Life is a tragedy for us old folks. We know there must come a day
when you will leave the nest, leave us voiceless, ridiculous,
flitting among bare branches.
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