My Lord and Lady
“Please, Madam Mother, could you lend me my wife for half an hour? The luggage has come, and I’ve been making hay of Amy’s Paris finery, trying to find some things I want,” said Laurie, coming in the next day to find Mrs. Laurence sitting in her mother’s lap, as if being made “the baby” again.
“Certainly. Go, dear; I forget that you have any home but this,” and Mrs. March pressed the white hand that wore the wedding-ring, as if asking pardon for her maternal covetousness.
“I shouldn’t have come over if I could have helped it; but I can’t get on without my little woman any more than a—”
“Weathercock can without wind,” suggested Jo, as he paused for a simile; Jo had grown quite her own saucy self again since Teddy came home.
“Exactly; for Amy keeps me pointing due west most of the time, with only an occasional whiffle round to the south, and I haven’t had an easterly spell since I was married; don’t know anything about the north, but am altogether salubrious and balmy, hey, my lady?”
“Lovely weather so far; I don’t know how long it will last, but I’m not afraid of storms, for I’m learning how to sail my ship. Come home, dear, and I’ll find your bootjack; I suppose that’s what you are rummaging after among my things. Men are so helpless, mother,” said Amy, with a matronly air, which delighted her husband.
“What are you going to do with yourselves after you get settled?” asked Jo, buttoning Amy’s cloak as she used to button her pinafores.