“Child, you mean,” Philip said, not pretending that he did not know she meant Miss Andrews.
“That girl,” his mother returned, “is innocence itself. Oh, Philip, dear, do marry her!”
“Well, I don’t know. If her mother is behaving as sagely with her as you are with me the chances are that she won’t let me. Besides, I don’t know that I want to marry quite so much innocence.”
“She is conscience incarnate,” his mother uttered, perfervidly. “You could put your very soul in her keeping.”
“Then you would be out of a job, mother.”
“Oh, I am not worthy of the job, my dear. I have always felt that. I am too complex, and sometimes I can’t see the right alone, as she could.”
Philip was silent a moment while he lost the personal point of view. “I suspect we don’t see the right when we see it alone. We ought to see the wrong, too.”
“Ah, Philip, don’t let your fancy go after that girl!”
“Miss Andrews? I thought—”
“Don’t you be complex, my dear. You know I mean Miss Shirley. What has become of her, I wonder. I heard Miss Andrews asking you.”