gloomily, "that for a mother whose only son
is about to be handed over to what the writers call the other woman,
you're pretty resigned, not to say cheerful."

Emma glanced up at him as he stood there, so tall and straight and
altogether good to look at, and the glow of love and pride in her eyes
belied the lightness of her words.

"I know it," she said, with mock seriousness, "and it worries me. I
can't imagine why I fail to feel those pangs that mothers are supposed
to suffer at this time. I ought to rend my garments and beat my
breast, but I can't help thinking of what a stunning girl Grace Galt
is, and what a brain she has, and how lucky you are to get her. Any
girl--with the future that girl had in the advertising field--who'll
give up four thousand a year and her independence to marry a man does
it for love, let me tell you. If anybody knows you better than your
mother, son, I'd hate to know who it is. And if anybody loves you more
than your mother--well, we needn't go into that, because it would have
to be hypothetical, anyway. You see, Jock, I've loved you so long and
so well that I know your faults as well as your virtues; and I love
you, not in spite of them but because of them.

"Oh, I don't know," interrupted Jock, with some warmth, "I'm not
perfect, but a fellow----"

"Perfect! Jock McChesney, when I think of Grace's feelings when she
discovers that you never close a closet door! When I contemplate her
emotions on hearing your howl at finding one seed in your orange juice
at breakfast! When she learns of your secret and unholy passion for
neckties that have a dash of red in 'em, and how you have to be
restrained by force from----"

With a simulated roar of rage, Jock McChesney fell upon his mother with
a series of bear-hugs that left her flushed, panting, limp, but
bright-eyed.

It was to her husband that Emma revealed the real source of her Spartan
calm. The wedding was over. There had been a quiet little
celebration, after which Jock McChesney had gone West with his very
lovely young wife. Emma had kissed her very tenderly, very soberly
after the brief ceremony. "Mrs. McChesney," she had said, and her
voice shook ever so little; "Mrs. Jock McChesney!" And the new Mrs.
McChesney, a most astonishingly intuitive young woman indeed, had
understood.

T. A. Buck, being a man, puzzled over it a little. That night, when
Emma had reached the kimono and hair-brushing stage, he ventured to
spe