Mrs. Pope snorted indignantly. “I wish he had stayed there,” she grumbled. “I cannot imagine what Alice sees in him to rave about.”
“Donald tells me he’s a very bright fellow. He knew him in college. She might do a great deal worse.”
“Not much. Why can’t she pick out a man of means, like poor Mr. West was? Think of what we owe that poor young man!”
“Don’t, mother!” Edith cried. “Please!”
She rose and went to the fireplace, her face convulsed with emotion.
“Why is it, Edith, that you always seem annoyed whenever I speak of Mr. West? You don’t show proper feeling. Think of all you owe him. I don’t see how you can let a day pass without thanking him from the bottom of your heart for all the happiness he has given you.”
“I appreciate it very much, mother.” Edith’s voice trembled—there was a trace of a sob in it.
“You certainly do not act like it,” pursued her mother relentlessly. “Every time I mention his name you change the subject.”
Edith turned, her face flushing. “Can’t you see,” she cried, “how it hurts me? I don’t want to be reminded of his death every minute of the day. God knows, I wish he were alive again!”