“Play that again, Hugo.  That’s beautiful.  What’s the name of that?” He would tell her, for the dozenth time, and play it over, she humming, off-key, in his wake.  The relation between them was more than that of mother and son.  It was a complex thing that had in it something conjugal.  When Hugo kissed his mother with a resounding smack and assured her that she looked like a kid she would push him away with little futile shoves, pat her hair into place, and pretend annoyance.  “Go away, you big rough thing!” she would cry.  But all unconsciously she got from it a thrill that her husband’s withered kisses had never given her.

Twelve years had passed since Etta’s marriage.  Hugo’s salary was a comfortable thing now, even in these days of soaring prices.  The habit of economy, so long a necessity, had become almost a vice in old lady Mandle.  Hugo, with the elasticity of younger years, learned to spend freely, but his mother’s thrift and shrewdness automatically swelled his savings.  When he was on the road, as he sometimes was for weeks at a time, she spent only a tithe of the generous sum he left with her.  She and Anna ate those sketchy meals that obtain in a manless household.  When Hugo was home the table was abundant and even choice, though Ma Mandle often went blocks out of her way to save three cents on a bunch of new beets.  So strong is usage.  She would no more have wasted his money than she would have knifed him in the dark.  She ran the household capably, but her way was the old-fashioned way.  Sometimes Hugo used to protest, aghast at some petty act of parsimony.

“But, Ma, what do you want to scrimp like that for!  You’re the worst tightwad I ever saw.  Here, take this ten and blow it.  You’re worse than the squirrels in the park, darned if you ain’t!”

She couldn’t resist the ten.  Neither could she resist showing it, next day, to Mrs. Brunswick, Mrs. Lamb, and Mrs. Wormser.  “How my son Hugo spoils me!  He takes out a ten-dollar bill, and he stuffs it into my hand and says ‘Ma, you’re the worst tightwad I ever saw.’” She laughed contentedly.  But she did not blow the ten.  As she grew older Hugo regularly lied to her about the price of theatre tickets, dainties, articles of dress, railway fares, luxuries.  Her credulity increased with age, shrewd though she naturally was.

It was a second blooming for Ma Mandle.  When he surprised her with an evening at the theatre she would fuss before her mirror for a full hour.  “Some gal!” Hugo would shout when finally she emerged.  “Everybody’ll be asking who the old man is you’re out with.  First thing I know I’ll have a police-woman after me for going around with a chicken.”

“Don’t talk foolishness.”  But she would flush like a bride.  She liked a musical comedy with a lot of girls in it and a good-looking tenor.  Next day you would hear her humming the catch-tune in an airy falsetto.  Sometimes she wondered about him.  She was, after all, a rather wise old lady, and she knew something of men.  She had a secret horror of his becoming what she called fast.