"I don't think that's quite fair," his mother said. "After all, it's a great deal to expect any girl to marry a young man who is penniless as well as a nobody."
"But I'm not a nobody, and I'm going to be a very big somebody, and she ought to know that I shall be a success. Did the girl think," he added angrily, waving his arm, "that I would let her starve, or send her on the stage to keep me? No. She ought to have understood, and now she's got to be punished."
She felt, this wise and clever old hen, that this hatchling of hers was not even an ordinary barnyard duck, that he was a wild, alien bird, capable of almost any flight.
"Well, my dear, your description of Dorothy Perkins has rather made my mouth water," she declared, as he rose and took a look out of the passage to see if he could nip back unobserved to his room (he had forgotten to bring his dressing-gown). "Such a lovable, home-keeping, devoted daughter you made her!"
"Exactly. Where I was canniest though," he returned, "was when I made her perfectly lovely as well. That little brute would never believe in a plain girl."
"But where did you get the photograph? It really is exceptionally lovely."
"I bought her at a photographers in Birmingham, when I was there the week before last. I had to take the man out to lunch to persuade him to sell it. She's an Irish girl—was governess to some rich Jew in Edgbaston, and she married a vet. in the army, and has gone to Egypt, so it's as safe as a church. Now mind, mother," he bent over and kissed her, and gave her a little hug, "mind you don't give it away to Jenny. I shall be back in about a week, and you must keep the flag flying for me while I'm away."
"All right, dear, I will. I don't like telling lies, but I do it very well when I want to. Any brothers and sisters—the Perkins's, I mean?"
"No. Only child. I'm going to lunch to-day," he said, "with some of our other editors—ahem! I see myself being very chummy with the editor of the English Gentleman. Oh, Lord!"