“And you heard her—a mile away. Do you expect me to believe that?” said Mrs. Kent, laughing wildly.
Emily had by this time recovered her poise. At no time in her life was Emily Byrd Starr ever disconcerted for long. She drew herself up proudly and in the dim light, in spite of her Starr features, she looked much as Elizabeth Murray must have looked over thirty years before.
“Whether you believe it or not it is true, Mrs. Kent,” she said haughtily. “I am not stealing your son—I do not want him—he can go.”
“I’m going to take you home first, Emily,” said Teddy. He folded his arms and threw back his head and tried to look as stately as Emily. He felt that he was a dismal failure at it, but it imposed on Mrs. Kent. She began to cry.
“Go—go,” she said. “Go to her—desert me.”
Emily was thoroughly angry now. If this irrational woman persisted in making a scene, very well: a scene she should have.
“I won’t let him take me home,” she said, freezingly. “Teddy, go with your mother.”
“Oh, you command him, do you? He must do as you tell him, must he?” cried Mrs. Kent, who now seemed to lose all control of herself. Her tiny form was shaken with violent sobs. She wrung her hands.
“He shall choose for himself,” she cried. “He shall go with you—or come with me. Choose, Teddy, for yourself. You shall not do her bidding. Choose!”
She was fiercely dramatic again, as she lifted her hand and pointed it at poor Teddy.
Teddy was feeling as miserable and impotently angry as any male creature does when two women are quarrelling about him in his presence. He wished himself a thousand miles away. What a mess to be in—and to be made ridiculous like this before Emily! Why on earth couldn’t his mother behave like other boys’ mothers? Why must she be so intense and exacting? He knew
