“I’ll tell you another thing, Mary,” said George, after a match-scratching-and-puffing interlude, “I’ll tell you another thing, my dear.  You’re an angel, and you don’t notice these things as I do, but, by Jove, your mother was reaching the point where she pretty nearly made trouble between us!  Fact!” he pursued, with a serious nod.  “I get tired, you know, and nervous, and unreasonable—­you must have had it pretty hard sometimes this month between your mother and me!  I get hot—­you know I don’t mean anything!  If you hadn’t the disposition of a saint, things would have come to a head long ago.  Now this very morning I talked to you like a regular kid.  Mary, the minute I got back to the office I was ashamed of myself.  Why, ninety-nine women out of a hundred would have raised the very deuce with me for that!  But, by Jove—­” his voice dropped to a pause.

“By Jove,” George went on, “you are an angel!  Now tell me the honest truth, old girl, didn’t you resent what I said to-day, just for a minute?”

“I certainly did,” Mary responded promptly and quietly, but with an uncomfortable sense of lessened wrath.  “What you said was absolutely unwarrantable and insulting!”

“I’ll bet you did!” said George, giving her a glance that was a little troubled, and a little wistful, too.  “It was insulting, it was unwarrantable.  But, my Lord, Mary, you know how I love your mother!” he continued eagerly.  “She and I are the best of friends.  We rasp each other now and then, but we both love you too much ever to come to real trouble.  I’m no angel, Mary,” said George, looking down his cigar thoughtfully, “but as men go, I’m a pretty decent man.  You know how much time I’ve spent at the club since we were married.  You know the fellows can’t rope me into poker games or booze parties.  I love my wife and my kids and my home.  But when I think of you, and realize how unworthy I am of you, by Heaven—!” He choked, shook his head, finding further speech for a moment difficult.  “There’s no man alive who’s worthy of you!” he finished.  “The Lord’s been very good to me.”

Mary’s eyes had filled, too.  She sat for a minute, trying to steady her suddenly quivering lips.  She looked at George sitting there in the twilight, and said to herself it was all true.  He was good, he was steady, he was indeed devoted to her and to the children.  But—­ but he had insulted her, he had broken her heart, she couldn’t let him off without some rebuke.

“You should have thought of these things before you—­” she began, with a very fair imitation of scorn in her voice.  But George interrupted her.  His hands were clasped loosely between his knees, his head hanging dejectedly.

“I know,” he said despondently, “I know!”

Mary paused.  What she had still to say seemed suddenly flat.  And in the pause her mother’s one piece of advice came to her mind.  After all it only mattered that he was unhappy, and he was hers, and she could make him happy again.