gesture. "I can't
believe it of you, that you'd think of such a sacrilege! That's what it
would be--sacrilege! When he talks about your unselfishness toward me,
he's right--you have been unselfish and you have been a perfect mother.
But what about him? Is it unselfish of him to want you to throw away
your good name just to please him? That's all he asks of you--and to
quit being my mother! Do you think I can believe you really care for
him? I don't! You are my mother and you're an Amberson--and I believe
you're too proud! You're too proud to care for a man who could write
such a letter as that!" He stopped, faced her, and spoke with more
self-control: "Well, what are you going to do about it, mother?"

George was right about his mother's being proud. And even when she
laughed with a negro gardener, or even those few times in her life
when people saw her weep, Isabel had a proud look--something that was
independent and graceful and strong. But she did not have it now: she
leaned against the wall, beside his dressing-table, and seemed beset
with humility and with weakness. Her head drooped.

"What answer are you going to make to such a letter?" George demanded,
like a judge on the bench.

"I--I don't quite know, dear," she murmured.

"Wait," she begged him. "I'm so--confused."

"I want to know what you're going to write him. Do you think if you
did what he wants you to I could bear to stay another day in this town,
mother? Do you think I could ever bear even to see you again if you
married him? I'd want to, but you surely know I just--couldn't!"

She made a futile gesture, and seemed to breathe with difficulty. "I--I
wasn't--quite sure," she faltered, "about--about it's being wise for us
to be married--even before knowing how you feel about it. I wasn't even
sure it was quite fair to--to Eugene. I have--I seem to have that family
trouble--like father's--that I spoke to you about once." She managed a
deprecatory little dry laugh. "Not that it amounts to much, but I wasn't
at all sure that it would be fair to him. Marrying doesn't mean so much,
after all--not at my age. It's enough to know that--that people think
of you--and to see them. I thought we were all--oh, pretty happy the way
things were, and I don't think it would mean giving up a great deal
for him or me, either, if we just went on as we have been. I--I see him
almost every day, and--"

"Mother!" George's voice was loud and stern. "Do you think you could g