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He was accustomed to having all his thoughts sifted through
his mother's mind; so, when he wanted companionship, and was asked in
reply to be the billing and twittering lover, he hated his betrothed.
"You know, mother," he said, when he was alone with her at night, "she's
no idea of money, she's so wessel-brained. When she's paid, she'll
suddenly buy such rot as marrons glaces, and then I have to buy her
season ticket, and her extras, even her underclothing. And she wants to
get married, and I think myself we might as well get married next year.
But at this rate--"
"A fine mess of a marriage it would be," replied his mother. "I should
consider it again, my boy."
"Oh, well, I've gone too far to break off now," he said, "and so I shall
get married as soon as I can."
"Very well, my boy. If you will, you will, and there's no stopping you;
but I tell you, I can't sleep when I think about it."
"Oh, she'll be all right, mother. We shall manage."
"And she lets you buy her underclothing?" asked the mother.


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