I appealed and appealed. She
watched me with the same air of interested detachment that one gives to
a squirrel revolving in a cage. I could feel that she was flattered; her
sense of power was agreeably tickled; my earnestness and despair
enhanced the zest of her reiterated refusals. I was a very nice young
man, but her son was going to marry Bertha McNutt or marry nobody!
Then I tried to draw a lurid picture of his revolt from her
apron-strings.
"Oh, Harry's a good boy," she said. "You can't make me believe that two
days has altered his whole character. I'll answer for his doing what I
want."
I felt a precisely similar conviction, and my heart sank into my shoes.
At this moment there was a tap at the door, and another old lady bounced
in. She was stout, jolly-looking and effusive. The greetings between the
pair were warm, and they were evidently old friends. But underneath the
new-comer's gush and noise I was dimly conscious of a sort of gay
hostility. She was exultant and frightened, both at once, and her eyes
were sparkling.
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