“No.”
“He has discharged you?”
“I have been discharged.”
The stern look faded from Mrs. Sartwell’s face. She drew a deep breath—a prolonged “Ah,” with what might be taken as a quiver of profound satisfaction in it—and, for the first time during the conference, leaned back comfortably in her chair.
“My poor boy!” she said at last, gazing compassionately at him. “Do you mean to say, then, that you would risk your whole future for a girl to whom you have never spoken?”
“Oh, I have spoken with her, Mrs. Sartwell. I said I had never spoken about—that she doesn’t know I care anything for her.”
“But you know absolutely nothing about her disposition—her temper.”
“I’d chance it.”
Mrs. Sartwell shook her head mournfully.
“How well you reflect the spirit of this scoffing age! People chance everything. Nothing is so important to a man as the solemn, prayerful choice of a wife, for on that choice rests the misery or the happiness of this life. A woman’s great duty—at least it seems so to my poor judgment—is to bring light, comfort, and joy, to her husband’s home. Do you think Edna Sartwell is fitted by temperament or education for this noble task?”