The widow flared up. "I can say that, sir, without your prompting."
"Why, mother! Why, I no more intended——"
"John, spare me! Oh, no, you were brutal merely by accident! I thank you! I must thank you for pointing your unfeeling hints at the most invincib—I mean inveterate—bachelor in the three counties."
"Inveterate lover, you'd better say. He marries Fannie Halliday next March. The General's telling every Tom, Dick and Harry to-day."
"John, I don't believe it! It can't be! I know better!"
"I wish you did, but they told me themselves, away last July, standing hand in hand. Mother, he's got no more right to marry her——"
"Than you have! And he knows it! For John, John! There never was a more pitiful or needless mismatch! Why, he could have—but it's none of my business, only—" she choked.
"No, of course not," said the son, emotionally, "and it's none of mine, either, only—humph!" He rose and strode about. "Why she could just as easily——Oh, me!" He jostled a chair. Mrs. March flinched and burst into tears.
"Oh, good heavens! mother, what have I done now? I know I'm coarse and irreverent and wilful and surly and healthy, and have got the big-head and the Lord knows what! But I swear I'll stop everything bad and be everything good if you'll just quit off sniv—weeping!"
Strange to say, this reasonable and practicable proposition did not calm either of them.