Madame Marie Boulangeat! There was only one Madame Marie Boulangeat in Boston, and the clergyman's mother knew her well—at least she knew her to the extent of two gowns a year.
Warily she lay the jacket back upon the bedspread, hastened downstairs, called her son away from the sailor and led him into the dining-room, closing the door cautiously behind them. In little gasps, she told him what she had discovered. Surely there was something wrong—"out of the way," she expressed it, about such a nice, refined-looking girl, dressed in such a gown, marrying a big, clumsy, uneducated young man like that!
"Surely, surely, Robert, you mustn't do it. Madame Boulangeat! Oh—please, please, son, refuse to have anything to do with this marriage."
Robert Barton patted his mother kindly on the shoulder. "Don't you worry, mother," he said. "She may be one of the sewing-girls at your Madame Boulangeat's for all we know. Besides, I couldn't go back on the poor fellow now. You come along and be good."
"I don't like it. I don't like the looks of it," his mother remonstrated. "She speaks like a lady, Robert, the few times she's spoken. Oh, dear, I don't see why you allow yourself to become involved in so irregular an affair."
Robert Barton led his mother gently toward the door.
"Don't let's keep them waiting," he said, and went out into the hall.
Reba was coming down the stairs. Mrs. Barton hastened toward her protectingly.
