Mechanics Hall. Also he danced—this in spite of his mother. All the life that Bestwood offered he enjoyed, from the six-penny-hops down Church Street, to sports and billiards.
Paul was treated to dazzling descriptions of all kinds of flower-like ladies, most of whom lived like cut blooms in William’s heart for a brief fortnight.
Occasionally some flame would come in pursuit of her errant swain. Mrs. Morel would find a strange girl at the door, and immediately she sniffed the air.
“Is Mr. Morel in?” the damsel would ask appealingly.
“My husband is at home,” Mrs. Morel replied.
“I—I mean young Mr. Morel,” repeated the maiden painfully.
“Which one? There are several.”
Whereupon much bushing and stammering from the fair one.
“I—I met Mr. Morel—at Ripley,” she explained.
“Oh—at a dance!”
“Yes.”
“I don’t approve of the girls my son meets at dances. And he is not at home.”
Then he came home angry with his mother for having turned the girl away so rudely. He was a careless, yet eager-looking fellow, who walked with long strides, sometimes frowning, often with his cap pushed jollily to the back of his head. Now he came in frowning. He threw his cap on to the sofa, and took his strong jaw in his hand, and glared down at his mother. She was small, with her hair taken straight back from her forehead. She had a quiet air of authority, and yet of rare warmth. Knowing her son was angry, she trembled inwardly.
“Did a lady call for me yesterday, mother?” he asked.
“I don’t know about a lady. There was a girl came.”
“And why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I forgot, simply.”
He fumed a little.
“A good-looking girl—seemed a lady?”
“I didn’t look at her.”
“Big brown eyes?”
“I did not look. And tell your girls, my son, that when they’re running after you, they’re not to corne and ask your mother for you. Tell them that—brazen baggages you meet at dancing-classes.”
“I’m sure she was a nice girl.”
“And I’m sure she wasn’t.”
