“Then you must permit me to differ with you,” said her husband, in a frosty voice. “The part of wife, as played for many months, has certainly been a farce; but, to put the case in a mild form, it has not been a success. As to your rôle of mother, the less said the better.”
“Laurence”—aghast, and drawing in her breath—“how can you speak to me in that way? It is not like you!”
“How do you know what I am like now? People change. And since you are so much changed, you need not be astonished if I am changed too!”
“And oh, Laurence, I am so—so angry with you about one thing!” she exclaimed irrelevantly. “I went to the Holts’ on Tuesday and saw Harry; he looks a perfect little angel!”
“Is that why you are so angry?”
“Nonsense! Why did you tell Mrs. Holt to refuse my money? Why may I not pay for him?”
“Because it is not your affair, but mine.”
“Not my affair?” she repeated incredulously.
“No; it is my business to maintain my son. And I shall certainly not suffer him to be paid for by Mr. West’s money!”
“It is mine; he gives it to me for my own use.”