"Oh, go along!" said Mrs. Morel, cross with the exaggeration.
"It's true, mother--she hasn't," he cried, jumping up and taking his old position on the hearthrug. "She's never read a book in her life."
"'Er's like me," chimed in Morel. "'Er canna see what there is i' books, ter sit borin' your nose in 'em for, nor more can I."
"But you shouldn't say these things," said Mrs. Morel to her son.
"But it's true, mother--she _can't_ read. What did you give her?"
"Well, I gave her a little thing of Annie Swan's. Nobody wants to read dry stuff on Sunday afternoon."
"Well, I'll bet she didn't read ten lines of it."
All the time Lily sat miserably on the sofa. He turned to her swiftly.
She never got beyond the second page. He read a great deal, and had a quick, active intelligence. She could understand nothing but love-making and chatter. 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 glacés_, 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.
"Well," he began apologetically, "she didn't ask me; but one morning--and it _was_ cold--I found her on the station shivering, not able to keep still; so I asked her if she was well wrapped up. She said: 'I think so.' So I said: 'Have you got warm underthings on?' And she said: 'No, they are cotton.' I asked her why on earth she hadn't got something thicker on in weather like that, and she said because she _had_ nothing. And there she is--a bronchial subject! I _had_ to take her and get some warm things. Well, mother, I shouldn't mind the money if we had any. And, you know, she _ought_ to keep enough to pay for her season-ticket; but no, she comes to me about that, and I have to find the money."