“Yes, mother.”
“Well, I suppose it was a polite thing for you to do,” said his mother, mildly, “but I don't quite care for her has I do for some girls. She is so very vehement. I do like a young girl to be gentle.”
“Well, I didn't see her, mother, in either a gentle or vehement mood,” said George. “As nearly as I can find out, she had a premonition who it was when I rang the door-bell, and said she had a headache, and ran up-stairs to bed.”
“Why, how do you know?” asked his mother, staring at him. “Her aunt was at the tea. Who told you?”
“Lily Merrill was there,” replied George, and again he was conscious of coloring. “She had come to stay with Maria because her aunt was going out. She answered my ring, and so I made a little call on her until Miss Stillman returned, and was so surprised to see her premises invaded and her niece missing that I think she inferred a conspiracy or a burglar. At all events, Lily and I were summarily dismissed. I have just seen Lily home.”
“Lily Merrill is pretty, and I think she is a nice, lady-like girl,” said Mrs. Ramsey, and she regarded her son more uneasily than before, “but I don't like her mother, George.”
“Why, what is the matter with Lily's mother?”
“She isn't genuine. Adeline Merrill was never genuine. She has always had her selfish ends, and she has reached them by crooks and turns.”
“I think Lily is genuine enough,” said George, carelessly, putting another lump of sugar in his cup of chocolate. “I have seen more brilliant girls, but she is a beauty, and I think she is genuine.”
“Well, perhaps she is,” Mrs. Ramsey admitted. “I don't know her very well, but I do know her mother. I know something now.”