“How do you know she is a beauty?” asked Marion’s mother, with a touch of jealousy.
“Oh, he wrote that to Roger in his first young admiration. An orphan, living with an uncle, years younger, a capricious beauty, with a little money; wasn’t that the description?”
“Something like it. Marion has carried herself well about this marriage.”
“Why shouldn’t she? She had nothing to carry herself about.”
“You don’t know girls. A memory is a memory.”
“How do you know?” he laughed.
“But this is not helping us out about Roger,” she remarked, ignoring his words and laugh.
“Roger will help himself out; he isn’t his father’s son for nothing.”
“As Marion was not her mother’s girl for nothing,” was the demure reply.
“How do you know—how can you be so certain sure that he wants Judith?”