“Thinking of the right thing to say always makes me hot,” she remarked.
“Well, if by the right thing you mean the strong thing, you certainly discovered it,” replied Morris, looking at her with affectionate admiration.
“I know; but it had to be done, dear. He’s losing a lot of money, which is mere waste”—here Morris groaned, but asked no questions—“besides,” and her voice became earnest, “I will not have him talking to you like that. The fact that one man is the father of another man doesn’t give him the right to abuse him like a pickpocket. Also, if you are so good that you put up with it, I have myself to consider—that is, if we are all to live as a happy family. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly,” said Morris. “I daresay you are right, but I hate rows.”
“So do I, and that is why I have accepted one or two challenges to single combat quite at the beginning of things. You mark my words, he will be like a lamb at breakfast to-morrow.”
“You shouldn’t speak disrespectfully of my father; at any rate, to me,” suggested the old-fashioned Morris, rather mildly.
“No, dear, and when I have learnt to respect him I promise you that I won’t. There, don’t be vexed with me; but my uncle Richard makes me cross, and then I scratch. As he said the other day, all women are like cats, you know. When they are young they play, when they get old they use their claws—I quote uncle Richard—and although I am not old yet, I can’t help showing the claws. Dad is ill, that is the fact of it, Morris, and it gets upon my nerves.”
“I thought he was better, love.”
“Yes, he is better; he may live for years; I hope and believe that he will, but it is terribly uncertain. And now, look here, Morris, why don’t you go home?”
“Do you want to get rid of me, love?” he asked, looking up.