He eyed Mary with wrinkled irritability as a type of composite womanhood. After all, he reflected, "Judy O'Grady and the Colonel's lady are sisters under their skins!" Mary was a bridge by which a poor ignorant man might cross the gulf which separates the sexes. The Songs of the Angels was a love story. He submitted the plot to Mary, who confounded him by an apt suggestion.
"By Jove, Honeydew, you know all about it. I suppose you've had half a dozen lovers?"
Mary blushed.
"Only Albert Batley."
He spared her confusion, but Mrs. Dew supplied details. Albert Batley had a nice growing business, as a contractor, in and about Weybridge, where houses were popping up like mushrooms in a night. Mrs. Dew fretfully complained that Mary did not know her own mind. Albert, it appeared, was quite willing to accept a mother-in-law as a permanent guest, if Mary would only accept him. "But naturally I'm not considered," she concluded, in that querulous whine which penetrated so far.
"Now, Mrs. Dew," Mark replied, "that won't do with me. Mary is as good as gold and your faithful slave."
"She won't have me long, Mr. Samphire. I'd like to see her settled, before I die."
Mark had met Albert, and been much entertained by him. Without wasting time in superfluous verbiage, Mr. Batley had given Mark to understand that he was ready to buy a wedding-ring, not to mention other trinkets, as soon as Mary gave him the word. If ever man was deeply, inextricably in Cupid's toils, Mr. Batley was he. À propos of this Mark said one day:
"You see, Honeydew, when a man is in love, he knows it."
"It works the same way with a woman," said Mary. "Only more so."