"Father," he says, "this is little Dirty. She is my sweetheart. We are going to be married."
"That is what people usually do with their sweethearts," I answer, philosophically. "Pray, Dirty, come in and be welcomed by the family."
"Wipe your feet, Dirty," says my little boy.
The mother of my little boy does not think much of the match. She has even spoken of forbidding Dirty the house.
"We can't do that," I say. "I am not in ecstasies over it either, but it is not at all certain that it will last."
"Yes, but . . ."
"Do you remember what little use it was when your mother forbade me the house? We used to meet in the most incredible places and kiss each other terribly. I can quite understand that you have forgotten, but you ought to bear it in mind now that your son's beginning. And you ought to value the loyalty of his behaviour towards his aged parents."
"My dear! . . ."
"And then I must remind you that it is spring. The trees are budding. You can't see it, perhaps, from the kitchen-window or from your work-table, but I, who go about all day, have noticed it. You know what Byron says:
March has its hares, and May must have its heroine."