“The fact is,” Baron resumed, “I didn’t foresee the—the complications. My mother has taken them into account, and it’s her decision, rather than mine, that we ought to give her up.”
Thornburg turned hurriedly to examine, and then to approve, the underline for a gorgeous poster of highly impressionistic design, which one of his employees had placed before him. When he turned to Baron again he presented the appearance of one who has lost the thread of a conversation.
“We were saying—oh, yes. You’ve got enough of—of what’s her name. Well, what’s your impression of her, now that you’ve had time to look her over?”
“I haven’t changed my mind at all. I like her.”
“The family made a row?”
Baron answered evasively. “It isn’t quite a question of liking. It’s something like trying to keep a canary in a suitcase, or putting a lamb or a kitten into harness.”
Thornburg smiled. “Tell me just how she fails to square with the—the domestic virtues,” he said.
“Her way of saying things—her views—she is so wholly unconventional,” said Baron haltingly. “She doesn’t stand in awe of her superiors. She expresses her ideas with—well, with perfect liberty. You know children aren’t supposed to be like that. At least my mother takes that view of the case.”
He so plainly had little or no sympathy with the argument he made that Thornburg looked at him keenly.
“I see. She scratches the paint off!” interpreted the manager. He smiled upon Baron exultingly.