“My son—my son! Another lover’s quarrel—is that all?”
“It is no lover’s quarrel. But she is heartless—my wishes are nothing to her.”
“Heartless, dear Claude. I think you do the girl wrong.”
“No, mother. She treats our engagement as if it were a spider’s web, to be swept through with a dash of her hand. Not an hour ago I saw her in the most public street of St. Louis, leaning on the arm of that miserable gambler, young Houston.”
“No, no. It can not be so bad as that.”
“Worse than that; she was hanging lovingly on his arm, while he bent and whispered—yes, mother, whispered in her ear.”
Mrs. La Clide seemed surprised; but she was a good woman, too good for hasty conclusions. She thought a moment, and answered her son gently.
“Ellen may be giddy, my son. That is a fault of youth, and she is young. But I think—I am sure she loves you.”
“She loves the wealth I have, and the position we can give her.”
“Now you are harsh, Claude.”