“Well, mother never seems unhappy.”
“Exactly,” said Michael eagerly. “Therefore, what you think can’t possibly be true. If it were, she’d always look miserable.”
“Well, then who was our father?”
“Don’t ask me,” said Michael gloomily. “I believe he’s in prison—or perhaps he’s in an asylum, or deformed.”
Stella shuddered.
“Michael, what a perfectly horrible idea. Deformed!”
“Well, wouldn’t you sooner he were deformed than that you were—than that—than the other idea?” Michael stammered.
“No, I wouldn’t,” Stella cried. “I’d much, much, much rather that mother was never married.”
Michael tried to drag his mind towards the comprehension of this unnatural sentiment, but the longer he regarded it the worse it seemed, and with intense irony he observed to Stella:
“I suppose you’ll be telling me next that you’re in love.”