“Minx! minx! minx! there!” uttered the old lady rapidly, giving her head a jerky nod after each repetition of the obnoxious epithet.
“This is scandalous!” said Tom, literally boiling over with passion. The term “minx,” applied to Lizzie, having apparently the same effect on him as a red rag has on a bull, or a fat turkey gobler, to adapt a more ignoble simile. “I won’t have it, whether you’re my mother or not, and I’ll marry whom I please, without asking your leave or licence.”
“You will, will you? I should like to know how you’re going to support a wife? I’m not going to do it for you.”
“I don’t care whether you do or do not,” said Tom, savagely.
The bull had been now tormented sufficiently, and the matador thought it time to give the coup de grace.
“Mark my words,” said the dowager, impressively, “if you marry that chit, Thomas, or have anything more to do with her, or any of that toadying crew, not a penny piece of my money do you get, Thomas.”
“Hang the money! I don’t want it: I suppose I can get along somehow or other without it.”
“Remember, you’re not of age yet, young sir, and when you are, you won’t be much better off, unless I please. You haven’t a penny of your own now, except what I give you, and if you don’t abandon the whole thing, not a penny more will you have.”
The dowager was aware of the advantage in military tactics of cutting off the enemy’s supplies.
“I’m sure I don’t want it,” said Tom; but he thought in a moment how ungracious this was to his mother, who had previously been so kind to him. “I mean, I don’t want you to help me any more, if it’s to be thrown in my teeth like this. I am very much obliged to you, mother, for what you have done for me already. That is past and gone, and I’m not going to sell myself now and break a trusting girl’s heart for the sake of my future chances. Hang the money! I hate the very sound of the word.”