"Yes; but he wasn't before you married him."
"Dear, you——" began Mrs. West, a flush of embarrassment mounting to her cheeks.
"Own up, mother, that you don't know. You can't say it was the shape of his nose, or the way he ate, or his chest measurement."
"Dorothy! why will you never be serious?" protested Mrs. West.
"I can't, mother," cried Dorothy, jumping up and walking over to the window. "No girl ever really knows why she wants to marry a man," she remarked, gazing out of the window. "It's just a feeling. I've got a feeling that I want to take care of John Dene, and—and—oh, mother! see to his boots," she finished with a laugh.
"I like Mr. Dene, Dorothy," said Mrs. West with a decisiveness that was with her uncommon.
"I know you do," said Dorothy mischievously. "That's what I'm afraid of."
"Dorothy dear, you mustn't," began Mrs. West.
"And," continued Dorothy relentlessly, "I won't have any poaching. I don't mind his being nice to you," she continued, leaving the window and planting herself in front of her mother, "because you really are rather nice." She tilted her head on one side, a picture of impudence. "Now, Mrs. West," she said, "the sooner we understand each other the better."
Again she was back on the stool at her mother's feet. For some minutes there was silence.