And I owe so much to my mother, Westoby. She stinted herself for
years to get me through college; she hardly had enough to eat; she...."
Then he groaned a lot more.
"I can't think that your mother--a mother like yours, Jones--would
consent to stand between you and your lifelong happiness. It's
morbid--that's what I call it--morbid, just to dream of such a thing."
"There's Bertha," he quavered.
"Great Scott, and who's Bertha?"
"The girl my mother chose for me two years ago--Bertha McNutt, you know.
She'd really prefer me not to marry at all, but if I must--it's Bertha,
Westoby--Bertha or nothing!"
"It's too late to say that now, old fellow."
"It's not too late for me to go home this very night."
"Well, Jones," I broke out, "I can't think you'd do such a caddish thing
as that. Think it over for a minute. You come down here; you sweep that
unfortunate girl off her feet; you make love to her with the fury of a
stage villain; you force her to betray her very evident partiality for
you--and then you have the effrontery to say: 'Good-by.
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