“There, there, Fergy,” Catherine comforted her. “I’ll be ashamed. Don’t cry, Fergy. Don’t cry, old Fergy.”
“I’m not crying,” Ferguson sobbed. “I’m not crying. Except for the awful thing you’ve gotten into.” She looked at me. “I hate you,” she said. “She can’t make me not hate you. You dirty sneaking American Italian.” Her eyes and nose were red with crying.
Catherine smiled at me.
“Don’t you smile at him with your arm around me.”
“You’re unreasonable, Fergy.”
“I know it,” Ferguson sobbed. “You mustn’t mind me, either of you. I’m so upset. I’m not reasonable. I know it. I want you both to be happy.”
“We’re happy,” Catherine said. “You’re a sweet Fergy.”
Ferguson cried again. “I don’t want you happy the way you are. Why don’t you get married? You haven’t got another wife have you?”
“No,” I said. Catherine laughed.
“It’s nothing to laugh about,” Ferguson said. “Plenty of them have other wives.”