In this, as in
everything, I cordially endorse her views. Ann is past the callow age.
She has refused a number of men who were conspicuously her inferiors,
though Dad has stormed a bit. Now you are the one man whom I consider
her physical and mental equal, the one man to whom I may talk in this
manner without fear of bigoted misunderstanding, but--while Ann's
friendship for you is warm and wholly sincere--she doesn't love you.
If she did," said my impudent young friend, "she'd likely shrug away
her aversion to marital custom and marry you before you were well aware
of it. As it is, she declines to sacrifice the maternal inheritance of
her sex and she refuses to marry. And there you are!"
Looking back now after five years of readjustment and metamorphosis, I
marvel at the cool philosophy with which two adventurous young
scapegraces settled the question of a little lad's unconventional birth.
I pass over now the heartbroken reproaches of Ann's father when my son
was born. We told him the truth and he could not understand. He
looked through the eyes of the world and it widened the gulf forever.
Thereafter Norman and Ann lived in the lodge.
Ann was a wonderful mother and the boy as sturdy and handsome a little
lad as the mother-heart of any woman ever worshiped.
Pages:
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360