It was not like Justin Mercer to make a remark about the personal appearance of man, woman, or child. His mother glanced at him in surprise, then for a brief space of time was mollified by his approval of her comfortable appearance, although she murmured a stern reference to gray hairs that are brought down by sorrow to the grave.
"Your face is full," he went on, in his composed voice, "and your hair is thick and glossy like a girl's, and your eyes are bright,—as bright as Derrice's there—"
The mention of his wife's name was inopportune. "Is that what you call her?" asked his mother, with a scornful compression of the lips.
"Yes, Derrice Lancaster."
Mrs. Prymmer's countenance grew purple. "She is not a daughter of that man?"
"She is."
"Help, Lord, for the godly man ceaseth," murmured the lady, upon whom these repeated blows were beginning to have the effect of inducing irrelevancy of Scripture quotations.
"If you like, I will tell you from the first," said her son.
"Do you want her to hear?" asked Mrs. Prymmer, with a glance toward the sliding doors that divided the two rooms.
The young man's face changed quickly, and muttering, "It would be just like her to listen,—the little witch," he got up and approached the doors.