Minerva squinted, but she could not prove irony in the response. She made a thin, tight mouth, a formidable mouth, and then let it relax into a smile. “However, it was only a slip, a little slip, and his first. It must, of course, be his last. I can hardly send my son’s future father-in-law packing off to prison—”
“God forbid!” There was, at least, no irony in that.
“On the other hand,” Minerva went on, changing her tone to one of intimacy, intimacy tinged with potential regret and the potential withdrawal of intimacy, “we mothers understand things our children don’t. Kit tells me Lenore doesn’t seem to reciprocate his feelings…”
“Oh! I’m sure she does!” Netta was alarmed, but not as much as she appeared to be.
“I can understand it. Kit’s rather a—shall we say, frightening young man, from the standpoint of an innocent young thing.”
“Innocent as driven snow,” Mrs. Bailey murmured.
“Kit’s peremptory, bullheaded, reckless and foolish. I wouldn’t have it any other way,”
Mrs. Sloan said sharply. “But you know and I know how love grows in marriage—”
“Indeed, I do!”
“—so I feel, a word from you, Mrs. Bailey—I must call you Netta, and you must call me Minerva—the right word…”