“Emerson! Pooh!” Mrs. Pope gave an indignant snort.
“Never you mind about Emerson,” said Alice with spirit. “He and I are going to find happiness in Chicago, in our own way. I know you don’t like him, so perhaps it’s just as well we are going to live a thousand miles off.”
Mrs. Pope began to weep audibly. “Of all the thankless tasks,” she groaned, “a mother’s is the worst. Here I’ve spent twenty-five years in raising you girls, living for you, waiting on you, slaving for you; and, now, you turn on me like this. It’s a shame—that’s what it is—a shame! When my poor, dear J. B. was alive—”
“Never mind about that now, mother. We didn’t come up here to have a family row. Let’s see if we can’t fix up this trouble between Donald and Edith.” She turned to her brother-in-law with a look of deep concern. “Mother insisted upon this interview, Donald. I told her it would do no good.”
“Not if Donald insists upon making beggars of us all,” Mrs. Pope interrupted tearfully.
Alice took no notice of her interruption. “You got Edith’s note?” she continued.
“Yes.”
“Are you going to her?”
“No. She must come to me. You can tell her so. But I insist upon seeing her alone.” He glanced significantly at Mrs. Pope.
“I shall not inflict my company upon you any longer, Mr. Rogers,” exclaimed the latter indignantly. “Good-night!” She swept toward the door. Alice followed her.