“Yes, dear, but she will grow wiser in that direction, and you cannot be surprised at her anxiety. Rob, dearest, you must not blame her for her worship of one whom she looks upon as a demigod—the perfection of all that is manly and strong.”
“Oh, no; it’s all right, mother,” said Rolph, who felt flattered by the maternal and girlish adulation; “I’ll behave like a lamb.”
“You’ll behave like my own true, brave son, dearest, and make me very happy. When shall it be, Rob?”
“Eh? The marriage?”
“Yes, dear,” said Mrs Rolph, kneeling at his side and passing an arm about him.
“Has Madge been at you about it?”
“For shame, dearest! She would die sooner than speak. You know how she gave up to what you fancied would make you happy before. Never a word, never a murmur; and she took that poor unfortunate girl, Glynne, to her heart as a sister.”
“Damn it all, mother, do let that cursed business rest,” cried Rolph impatiently.
“Yes, dearest, of course; pray forgive me.”
“Oh, all right! But—er—Madge—she hasn’t seen her—hasn’t been over there?”