I'm off.'"
"My mother--" he began.
"You simply can not act so dishonorably, Jones."
He sat silent for a little while.
"My mother--" he started in again finally.
"Surely your mother loves you?" I demanded.
"That's the terrible part of it, Westoby, she--"
"Pooh!"
"She stinted herself to get me through col--"
"Then why did you ever come here?"
"That's just the question I'm asking myself now."
"I don't see that you have any right to assume all that about your mother,
anyway. Eleanor Van Coort is a woman of a thousand--unimpeachable social
position--a little fortune of her own--accomplished, handsome, charming,
sought after--why, if you managed to win such a girl as that your mother
would walk on air."
"No, she wouldn't. Bertha--"
"You're a pretty cheap lover," I said. "I don't set up to be a little
tin hero, but I'd go through fire and water for _my_ girl. Good heavens,
love is love, and all the mothers--"
He let out a few more groans.
"Then, see here, Jones," I went on, "you owe some courtesy to our
hostess.
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