"Mother," he said, "you're going about this matter in the wrong way. I am not in love with Athalie Greensleeve. But there is no girl I like better, none perhaps I like quite as well. Let me alone. There's no sentiment between her and me so far. There won't be any—unless you and other people begin to drive us toward each other. I don't want you to do that. Don't interfere. Let us alone. We're having a good time,—a perfectly natural, wholesome, happy time together."
"'I like her,' repeated Clive, Jr., a trifle annoyed."
"What is it leading to?" demanded his mother impatiently.
"To nothing except more good times. That's absolutely all. That's all that good times lead to where any of the girls you approve of are concerned—not to sentiment, not to love, merely to more good times. Why on earth can't people understand that even if the girl happens to be earning her own living?"
"People don't understand. That is the truth, and you can't alter it, Clive. The girl's reputation will always suffer. And that's where you ought to show yourself generous."
"What?"