The question comes quite unexpectedly and, at the moment, I don't know what to answer.
"Well?" says the mother of my little boy, amiably, and looks up from her newspaper.
And I pull my waistcoat down and my collar up:
"Yes," I say, firmly. "You can. But it is wrong. It leads to more fuss and unpleasantness than you can possibly conceive."
A silence.
"Are you so fond of Erna?" asks our mother.
"Yes."
"Do you want to marry her?"
"Yes."
I get up and rub my hands: