“I took her home, but she could not get on with my mother. They always quarrelled, and Titti simply hated her. I suppose it would have made no difference to mother if I had been engaged to somebody else; the fact that I was going to marry was enough to put her against any woman. Well—Titti broke it off.”
“Did it hurt you very much?” Jenny asked quietly.
“Yes, at the time. I did not quite get over it till I came here, but I think it was mostly my pride that suffered. Don’t you think that if I had loved her really, I should have wished her to be happy when she married another? But I didn’t.”
“It would have been almost too unselfish and noble,” said Jenny, smiling.
“Oh, I don’t know. That is how you ought to feel if you really love. Don’t you think it is strange that mothers never care for their sons’ sweethearts? They never do.”
“I suppose a mother thinks no woman is good enough for her boy.”
“When a daughter gets engaged it is quite different. I saw that in the case of my sister and the fat, red-haired clergyman. There was never much sympathy between my sister and myself, but when I saw that fellow making love to her, and thought that he.... Ugh!
“I sometimes think women who have been married some time become more cynical than we men ever are. They don’t give themselves away, but you notice it all the same. Marriage to them means merely business. When a daughter marries they are pleased to have her saddled on to some one who can feed and clothe her, and if she has to put up with the shady side of marriage in return, it’s not worth making a fuss about. But if a son takes upon himself the same kind of burden for a similar return, they are not so enthusiastic about it. Don’t you think there is something in it?”
“Sometimes,” said Jenny.