“Sorry to cause trouble. Cannot hope to make you understand. Married to Phyllis Webster by registrar this morning. Will Mother tell Elizabeth at once.”
Then, in a burst of feeling at the end—
“Awfully happy but for complications, hope you and Mother will forgive.”
“Complications,” said Andy stupidly, while the pews raced swiftly round him and seemed to settle, queerly enough, with a thump inside his head, into their accustomed places. “Of course—complications.”
“What is the use of standing and muttering that?” demanded Mrs. Stamford, wiping her eyes. “It’s all terrible—terrible—but we must make the best of it. She is your connection, and respectable, though she has such eyes and stockings, and it might very well have been the back row of the ballet.”
It is only in such moments as these that the raw truth comes out, and it is infectious.
“She is good enough for your son, and she will see that he behaves himself—I know that,” Andy retorted. “She has a will of iron under a fluffy exterior, and that’s exactly the sort to manage him.”
Then Mr. Stamford said agitatedly—
“You must go to Elizabeth. Poor girl! Poor girl! To think that my son——” he broke off, grey about the mouth, and leaned back against the stone wall of the porch.
Mrs. Stamford pulled her weather-beaten hat farther over her forehead, and started, without another word, down the path; but before she was out of hearing her husband called hoarsely, “Ellen! Ellen!”