"Surely your mother loves you?" I demanded.
"That's the terrible part of it, Westoby, she—"
"Pooh!"
"She stinted herself to get me through col—"
"Then why did you ever come here?"
"That's just the question I'm asking myself now."
"I don't see that you have any right to assume all that about your mother, anyway. Eleanor Van Coort is a woman of a thousand—unimpeachable social position—a little fortune of her own—accomplished, handsome, charming, sought after—why, if you managed to win such a girl as that your mother would walk on air."
"No, she wouldn't. Bertha—"
"You're a pretty cheap lover," I said. "I don't set up to be a little tin hero, but I'd go through fire and water for my girl. Good heavens, love is love, and all the mothers—"
He let out a few more groans.