“I’m fed up with our position,” Norman retorted.  A sullen look was gathering about his mouth.  “What does it amount to?  A lot of people running around in circles, making a splash with their money.  You, and the sort of thing you call our position, made a sissy of me right up till the war came along.  There was nothing I was good for but parlor tricks.  And you and everybody else expected me to react from that and set things afire overseas.  I didn’t.  I didn’t begin to come up to your expectations at all.  But if I didn’t split Germans with a sword or do any heroics I did get some horse sense knocked into me—­unbelievable as that may appear to you.  I learned that there was a sort of satisfaction in doing things.  I’m having a try at that now.  And you needn’t imagine I’m going to be wet-nursed along by your money.

“As for my associates, and the degrading influences that fill you with such dismay,” Norman’s voice flared into real anger, “they may not have much polish—­but they’re human.  I like them, so far as they go.  I’ve been frostbitten enough by the crowd I grew up with, since I came home, to appreciate being taken for what I am, not what I may or may not have done.  Since I have discovered myself to have a funny sort of feeling about living on your money, it behooves me to get out and make what money I need for myself—­in view of the fact that I’m going to be married quite soon.  I am going to marry”—­Norman rose and looked down at his mother with something like a flicker of amusement in his eyes as he exploded his final bombshell—­“a fisherman’s daughter.  A poor but worthy maiden,” he finished with unexpected irony.

“Norman!” His mother’s voice was a wail.  “A common fisherman’s daughter?  Oh, my son, my son.”

She shed a few beautifully restrained tears.

“A common fisherman’s daughter.  Exactly,” Norman drawled.  “Terrible thing, of course.  Funny the fish scales on the family income never trouble you.”

Mrs. Gower glared at him through her glasses.

“Who is this—­this woman?” she demanded.

“Dolly,” Betty whispered under her breath.

“Miss Dolores Ferrara of Squitty Cove,” Norman answered imperturbably.

“A foreigner besides.  Great Heavens!  Horace,” Mrs. Gower appealed to her husband, “have you no influence whatever with your son?”

“Mamma,” Betty put in, “I assure you you are making a tremendous fuss about nothing.  I can tell you that Dolly Ferrara is really quite a nice girl. I think Norman is rather lucky.”

“Thanks, Bet,” Norman said promptly.  “That’s the first decent thing I’ve heard in this discussion.”

Mrs. Gower turned the battery of her indignant eyes on her daughter.

“You, I presume,” she said spitefully, “will be thinking of marrying some fisherman next?”

“If she did, Bessie,” Gower observed harshly, “it would only be history repeating itself.”