“You’re wrong, Mrs. Shackleton; I know Mariposa Moreau. She tells the truth; all of it. That’s why it’s so hard sometimes to understand what she means. We’re not used to it. She doesn’t like that man, and she wouldn’t marry him if he was hung all over with diamonds and was going to give her the Con Virginia for a wedding present.” “Bosh!” ejaculated her companion, with sudden, sharp irritation. “That’s what she says. They have no money to marry on, I suppose, and she’s trying to keep her engagement secret. It explains everything. I must say I’m relieved. I had the girl on my mind, and it seemed to me she was so senseless and fly-away that you didn’t know where she’d fetch up.” Mrs. Willers was annoyed. It was not pleasant to her to hear Mariposa spoken of this way. But a long life of struggle and misfortune had taught her, among other valuable things, the art of hiding unprofitable anger under a bland smile. “Well, all I can say,” she said, laughing quite naturally, “is that I hope you’re wrong. I’m sure I don’t want to see her married to that man.” “Why not?” queried Mrs. Shackleton, with the sudden arrested glance of surprised curiosity. “What is there to object to in such a marriage?” “Hundreds of things,” answered Mrs. Willers, feeling that there are many disadvantages in having to converse with your employer’s mother on the subject of one of your best friends. “Who knows anything about Barry Essex? No one knows where he comes from, or who he is, or even if Essex is his name. I don’t believe it is, at all. I think he just took it because it sounds like the aristocracy. And what’s his record? I’ll lay ten to one there are things behind him he wouldn’t like to see published on the front page of _The Trumpet_. He’s no man to make a girl happy.” “You seem to be taking a good deal for granted. Because you don’t know anything about him, it’s no reason to suppose the worst. He certainly looks and acts like a gentleman, and he’s finely educated. And isn’t it better for a girl like Miss Moreau to have a husband to take care of her than to go roaming around by herself, throwing away every chance she gets, for some crazy notion? That young woman’s not able to take care of herself. The best thing for her is to get Barry Essex to do it for her.” “I’ve known women,” said Mrs. Willers, judicially, “who thought that a bad husband was better than no husband at all. But I’m not of that opinion myself, having had one of the bad ones. Solomon said a corner of a housetop and a dinner of herbs was better than a wide house with a brawling woman. And I tell you that one room in Tar Flat and beef’s liver for every meal is better than a palace on Nob Hill with a husband that’s no account.” “I’m afraid you’re inclined to look on the dark side of matrimony,” said Mrs. Shackleton, laughing, as she rose from her chair.