"That's different."
"Did he, now?"
"No, he didn't. But I knew him; I knew his mother; I knew his family, and everything."
"Well, come with me to Chicago and ask him about his family," Martha pleaded. "If you think there's anything disgraceful about it, we could go to some place—some hotel—on the west side—where nobody'd have to know anything about it."
"Why, Martha Kenworthy!"
"Look here, mammie! I'm not going to quarrel with you! I've quarreled with everybody else. If you'll just try to be reasonable. I'm not asking you to promise you'll like him, or anything; I just ask you to get acquainted with him. I know you'd like him. Just hear his side of it once. You said you felt sorry for people that were unhappy—with their wives. You said you thought Mrs. Green ought to get a divorce, mother. That night Helen was here, when we were sitting on the porch. You said yourself that such a marriage wasn't anything. Mother, you always said that. You pitied other people."
"I pity Eve's sister, too."
"Yes, but why don't you pity HIM? Because you don't know him! You won't even try to get to know him. It isn't fair, mother!"
"How can I think of him? I'm thinking of you!"
"I suppose that's natural." Martha was determined to be conciliatory. She searched about for some effective argument. "Mammie," she said, lovingly, "you just look tired out. I just hate to see you worrying this way. Especially when you don't really need to. Mammie, do you want me to go now to Mrs. Benton's?"