"Mother," he said in a voice of new seriousness, "are you marrying him to get that money for me?"
"I mean to get it for you," she returned, without looking up.
Again he began to send rings of smoke to break on the ceiling above, and meanwhile she fixed her attention on her sewing. The noise of the carriages outside, the profanity of the English sparrows quarreling on the trees, and the sound of a distant street-organ playing "Cavalleria" came in through the open window.
"Mother," he said, "I won't have it."
"Won't have what?"
"I won't have you marry Harry Bradish."
"Why not?"
"Do you think," he urged, with some heat, "that I don't see through the whole thing? You are bound to help me out, and I won't have you do it."
The widow let her sewing fall into her lap, and turned her face to the window.
"How will you help it?" she asked softly.