'God!'
'What is it, Kenneth?'
'You're a woman.'
'I had near forgot it.'
He wishes he was at the station with Dixon. Dixon is sure to have a
bottle in his pocket. They will be roaring a song presently. But in
the meantime--there is that son business. Blethers, the whole thing,
of course--or mostly blethers. But it's the way to please her.
'Have you noticed you have never called me son?'
'Have I noticed it! I was feared, Kenneth. You said I was on probation.'
'And so you were. Well, the probation's ended.' He laughs uncomfortably.
'The like of me! But if you want me you can have me.'
'Kenneth, will I do?'
'Woman,' artfully gay, 'don't be so forward. Wait till I have proposed.'
'Propose for a mother?'
'What for no?' In the grand style, 'Mrs. Dowey, you queer carl, you
spunky tiddy, have I your permission to ask you the most important
question a neglected orphan can ask of an old lady?'
She bubbles with mirth. Who could help it, the man has such a way with
him.
'None of your sauce, Kenneth.'
'For a long time, Mrs. Dowey, you cannot have been unaware of my sonnish
feelings for you.
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