“I said no such thing. There is a class of New York young people who are so ‘loud’ that respectable people cannot have anything to do with them without lowering themselves. Miss Van Duzen belongs to that class.”
“You are rough on her, upon my word. I don’t think she’s half so bad, do you, Bessie?”
“I liked her very much,” said Bessie. “She may not be our style exactly, but I think at heart she is a good, true girl.”
“I wonder if she will call,” I said. “By the way, Fred Marston is coming out to see us as soon as he gets back to the city.”
“As to that young man,” Mrs. Pinkerton remarked, with some show of vivacity, “he impressed me as being little less than disreputable.”
“Disreputable! I would have you understand that Fred Marston is one of my friends,” I exclaimed, growing angry, “and he is as respectable as the rector of St. Thomas’s Church!”
Phew! Now I had done it. Mrs. Pinkerton was thoroughly scandalized and offended. She got up, and we left the table, Bessie looking troubled. I went into the library, and after lighting a cigar, sat down to read the papers. Bessie, who had followed me, brushed the journal out of my hand and seated herself on my knee.
“Charlie,” she said, kissing me, and smoothing the hair away from my brow, “can’t you and mamma ever get along any better than this?”
“A conundrum! I never guessed one, so I shall have to give this up. But don’t you see how it is, dearest? I try to be good to her, and she won’t meet me half-way. On the contrary, she tries to nag me, I think. It wasn’t my fault to-night. What right has she to run down my friends? If she don’t like them, she might leave them alone, and be precious sure they’d leave her alone. She don’t like smoking; I tried to swear off, tried mighty hard, but it was no use. You see—”
“It wasn’t quite necessary for you to make that remark about the Rev. Dr. McCanon, was it, Charlie?”