“She was offended, of course. But what was I to do? I can’t see that I’m to blame.”
“But can’t you see that mother is doing the best she can for you, and that you ought to be grateful?”
“I see what you mean. But I believe in having an understanding from the beginning. She’s got her ideas, and I’ve got mine. She believes you’re Satan’s if you look pretty—or something like that. And I believe you ought to be Satan’s if you don’t.”
“But you do look—pretty.” Baron spoke the last word ungraciously. He was trying to believe he would not care much longer what turn affairs took—that he would have forgotten the whole thing in another day or two.
He found his mother up-stairs.
“Well—any change for the better?” he asked.
“I’m sure I don’t know. That depends entirely upon what arrangements you have made.”
“I think Thornburg will take her. He’s got to do a little planning.”
“People sometimes do before they bring strange children into their houses,” Mrs. Baron retorted.
Baron realized that his mother was becoming more successful with her sarcasm. He passed into the library. A mischievous impulse seized him—the fruit of that last fling of his mother’s. He called back over his shoulder. “If the perverse little thing is quite unendurable, you might lock her up in the attic and feed her on bread and water until she leaves.”