"An' you're the sweet one!" Mrs. McGahn broke in. "To go off an' leave her to fight yer battles fer yuh. What 're yuh thinkin' of, to do it, man?"
He did not reply to her. He had scarcely heard her. He came to the foot of the sofa as awkwardly as a boy in a sick-room. "What's the matter?"
She rolled her head on the cushion. "I'll have to go home."
He dropped his hat. "Why?"
"Why?" Mrs. McGahn echoed. "Why! Because she's the girl's mother, ain't she?" She stopped at the ghastliness of his face. "Well, dang yuh," she cried in a humorous Irish exasperation, "yuh're the biggest fool alive. If yuh want the girl, why don't yuh marry her? Shilly-shallyin', an' kissin' in the halls at night, an' tormentin' her with yer goin's on! Why don't yuh marry her an' tell her mother to go off an' mind her bus'ness? Here!" She closed the door and came back to front him like a magistrate. "What 're yuh up to, young man? Will yuh marry her, er will yuh not? Fer, by the jukes, now, if yuh won't, yuh'll go out o' here this blessed minut' an' the girl 'll go home in the mornin' to where she belongs! Now! out with it!"
Margaret struggled to get up, rising on her elbow. "Mrs. McGahn!" she cried piteously.
"Be still, you." She rounded on Don again. "It's take it er leave it! She can't stay here—an' I won't have her here. She's her mother's daughter until she's a wedded woman an' out o' danger. An' home she'll go!"
