He stared at her. “Why, you old goose, I'm not going.”
She echoed him: “Not going?”
“Of course not. I'm going to get a bedroom here, and we'll have all our meals and everything in here. We're not going to part again, Marykins. Not much!”
That maddening handicap beneath which the sweetest women trudge shackled Mary, deluged this joy.
“Oh, Georgie!” she said; and again trembled, “Oh, Georgie!”
My impulsive George scented the damp. “Well?” he asked. “Well? Whatever's—?”
“Oh, Georgie, you can't have a room here. We can't have all our meals together here?”
He realised the trouble. He broke out: “Why ever not? Why ever—?”
“It wouldn't be right! Georgie, it wouldn't be right!”
Her impulsive George choked for words. “Not right! 'Pon my soul, Mary, I simply don't understand you sometimes. Not right! Why isn't it right?”