“But you say she doesn’t believe in marriage!”
“She doesn’t.”
“Well, that boy of ours isn’t crazy,” insisted Shotwell Senior.
But his mother remained silent in her deep misgiving concerning the sanity of the simpler sex, when mentally upset by love. For it seemed very difficult to understand what to do––if, indeed, there was anything for her to do in the matter.
To express disapproval of Palla to Jim or to the girl herself––to show any opposition at all––would, she feared, merely defeat its own purpose and alienate her son’s confidence.
The situation was certainly a most disturbing one, though not at present perilous.
And Helen would not permit herself to believe that it could ever really become an impossible situation––that this young girl would deliberately slap civilisation in the face; or that her only son would add a kick to the silly assault and take the ruinous consequences of social ostracism.
The young girl in question was at that moment seated before her piano, her charming head uplifted, singing in the silvery voice of an immaculate angel, to her own accompaniment, the heavenly Mass of Saint Hildé: