"Of course it does! Willy-yum! A most reproachful name. No, Prosy dear, I shall call you Prosy, whatever the consequences may be. People must put their own construction upon it."
"Mother calls me Conny very often."
"When she's not taking exception to you ... oh, no! I know. I was only joking ... there, then! we won't quarrel and go home opposite ways about that. Besides, I'm the young lady...."
"Oh, Sally darling, dearest, it does make me feel such a fool. Please don't!"
"Stuff and nonsense, Prosy dear! I shall, if I choose. So there!... No, but seriously—why did you think I shouldn't get on well with your mother?" Poor Prosy looks very much embarrassed at this point; his countenance pleads for respite. But Sally won't let him off. And he is as wax in her hands, and she knows it, and also that every word that passes her coral lips seems to the poor stricken man a pearl of wisdom. And she is girl enough to enjoy her power, is Sally.
"Why do you think I shan't get on with her?" Note the slight variation in the question, driving the nail home, leaving no escape. The doctor's manner in reply is that of one who appeals to Truth herself to help him, before a court that acknowledges no other jurisdiction.
"Because ... I must say it because it's true, only it seems so ... so disloyal, you might say, to mother...."
"Well! Because what?"
"Because then it won't be the same as your mother. It can't be."