“Why,” exclaimed Alfred, in alarm, “do you?”
“Of course. He has eyes and ears, I suppose, and every body understood it.”
“Did they?” asked Alfred, bewildered and wretched; “I didn’t know it.”
“Of course. Every body knew it must be so, and agreed that it was highly proper—in fact the only thing.”
“Oh, certainly. Clearly the only thing,” replied Alfred, wondering whether his mother and he meant the same thing.
“And therefore I say it is not quite honorable in Beacon to drive her out in such a marked manner. And I may as well say at once that I think you had better settle the thing immediately. The world understands it already, so it will be a mere private understanding among ourselves, much more agreeable for all parties. Perhaps this evening even—hey, Alfred?”
Mrs. Dinks adjusted herself upon the sofa in a sort of final manner, as if the affair were now satisfactorily arranged.
“It’s no use talking that way, mother; it’s all done.”
Mrs. Dinks appeared sleepy no longer. She bounced like an India-rubber ball. Even the cap-ribbons were left to shift for themselves. She turned and clasped Alfred in her arms.
“My blessed son!”