“Love in a cottage,” he sighed, casting a quick glance around the room,—“well, it isn’t so bad after all, with plenty of books, a pleasant garden, sunny rooms, a pretty view, and a mother-in-law to look after a fellow and keep him straight.” And the wretch looked at Mrs. Pinkerton, and laughed in a sociable way.
I promptly called his attention to a beautiful edition of Thackeray’s works in the bookcase, a recent purchase.
In the course of a half-hour’s call, Fred managed to introduce the dangerous topic at least a half-dozen times, and each time I was compelled to choke him off by ramming some other subject down his throat willy-nilly.
Finally he rose to go. I accompanied him to the front door.
“Sociable creature, old Pink, eh?” he said. “Doesn’t love me too well. Is she always as festive and amusing as to-night?”
“Hold on a minute,” was my reply. I ran back and got my hat and cane, and accompanied him toward the railroad station.
“See here, Fred,” I said, “your intentions are good, but I wish you would quit talking about Mrs. Pinkerton. I am doing my best to live peaceably and comfortably in the same house with her, and you don’t help me a bit with your gabble. She is a very worthy woman, and not half so stupid as you imagine. I admit that we don’t get along together quite as I could wish, but I’m trying to please my wife by being as good a son as I can be to her mother. What’s the use of trying to rile up our little puddle?”
“Oh, all right!” he rejoined. “If you prefer your puddle should be stagnant—admirable metaphor, by the way—it shall be as you wish. Only I hate to see the way things are going with you, and I’m bound to tell you so. You are losing your spirit, tying your hands, and throwing all your manly independence to the winds. If you live two years with that irreproachable mummy, you won’t be worth knowing. Do you dare go into town with me and have a game of billiards?”
I went. We had several games. I got home about midnight. The next morning, at the breakfast-table, Mrs. Pinkerton said dryly,—
“Your friend Marston pities you, doesn’t he?”