"I am not sure of Lizzie's heart," said Mrs. Ford, who, it may be well to add, was very sure of her own.
Jack began to laugh. "What's the matter with her heart?"
"I think Lizzie's shallow," said Mrs. Ford; and there was that in her tone which betokened some satisfaction with this adjective.
"Hang it! she is shallow," said Jack. "But when a thing's shallow, you can see to the bottom. Lizzie doesn't pretend to be deep. I want a wife, mother, that I can understand. That's the only wife I can love. Lizzie's the only girl I ever understood, and the first I ever loved. I love her very much,—more than I can explain to you."
"Yes, I confess it's inexplicable. It seems to me," she added, with a bad smile, "like infatuation."
Jack did not like the smile; he liked it even less than the remark. He smoked steadily for a few moments, and then he said,—
"Well, mother, love is notoriously obstinate, you know. We shall not be able to take the same view of this subject: suppose we drop it."
"Remember that this is your last evening at home, my son," said Mrs. Ford.
"I do remember. Therefore I wish to avoid disagreement."
There was a pause. The young man smoked, and his mother sewed, in silence.