"I'll stop it in one way or another. I tell you—"
But she turned toward him a face full of confusion and laughter.
"Oh, Jack, you old goose, I've been fond of Harry Bradish for years, only I didn't dare show it because—"
"Because what?"
"Because Sibley Langdon was so nasty if I did," she returned, her tone hardening. "You don't know," she went on, the tone changing again like a flute-note, "what a perfect dear Harry is. I've teased him, and snubbed him, and bullied him, and treated him generally like a fiend, and he's been as patient, and as sweet—Why, Jack, he's a saint beside me! He's awkward, and as stupid as a frog, but he's as good as gold."
Jack's face had darkened at the mention of Langdon, but it cleared again, and his sunny smile came back once more. He sent out a great cloud of smoke with an entire disregard of the possibilities of artistic ring-making which he sacrificed, and chuckled gleefully.
"All right, mater," he said, "if that's the state of things I've nothing more to say. You may even fleece him for my benefit if you want to."
He rose as he spoke, and went over to where his mother was sitting. With heightened color, she had picked up her sewing, and bent over it so that her face was half hidden.
"Who supposed there was so much sentiment in the family," he remarked. "Well, I must go down town. Good-by. I wish you joy."
They kissed each other with a tenderness not customary, for neither was much given to sentimental demonstrations; and Jack went his way.