"
"Never fear!" said her husband, having disobeyed. "They've turned off;
they're crossing over to Bullard Street. Who is it?"
"I think her name's Rust," Mrs. Milholland informed him. "I don't know
what her father does. She's one of the girls in his class at school."
"Well, that's just like a boy; pick out some putty-faced flirt to take
to church!"
"Oh, she's quite pretty--in that way!" said his wife, deprecatingly. "Of
course that's the danger with public schools. It would be pleasanter if
he'd taken a fancy to someone whose family belongs to our own circle."
"'Taken a fancy'!" he echoed, hooting. "Why, he's terrible! He looked
like a red-gilled goldfish that's flopped itself out of the bowl. Why,
he--"
"I _say_ I wish if he felt that he had to take girls anywhere," said
Mrs. Milholland, with the primmest air of speaking to the point--"if
this sort of thing _must_ begin, I wish he might have selected some
nice girl among the daughters of our own friends, like Dora Yocum, for
instance."
Upon the spot she began to undergo the mortification of a mother who has
expected her son, just out of infancy, to look about him with the eye of
a critical matron of forty-five.
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