“Well, Max always was a hard one, certainly, my dear. Ever since we were boys together, ‘Merry, merry boys—since we were boys together,’” he sang. Then, descending once more to everyday-life conversation, he went on, “He was a hard one, Max was; and as to money, he’d always have a penny or twopence when I had none, even if he borrowed it of me.”
“And never paid it again,” said his wife contemptuously. “Well, it was a way he had,” said Dick.
“I haven’t patience with him.”
“No, my dear, you never did have patience with Max. Clever chap too. Marries his widow with lots of tin and a pair of boots—boys I mean—ready made. Why didn’t I?”
“Ah! why indeed?” said Mrs Shingle sharply.
“Because I was a fool,” said Dick, smiling pleasantly. “Fools are best off too, mother. I say, fancy me with a wife like Max’s!”
The idea seemed to please Dick so that he laughed and wiped one eye.
“There are worse women than Mrs Max,” said Mrs Shingle.
“Yes, and there’s better ones than you, I suppose, mother. But I’m contented, and never wanted a divorce yet.”
“Dick, how can you talk so before that boy?”