Story Fragment No. 1

I don't know where it came from, or where (if anywhere) it's going, but this is a fragment from the life of Ardent Jones.

“Mr. …”
“Jones, Sir. Ardent Jones. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sir. I’ve heard so much about—”
“Ardent, you say? Dear me, that’s rather French. Well, how do you do?”
They shook hands. “My mother’s choice. She was fond of romances.”
“And are you fond of her?”
Ardent paused a moment. The question was so unexpected. “I suppose all men love their mothers, Sir.” He said carefully.
“A weak answer, but expressive. In my day, young man, we did not speak in that singularly deprecating manner of our mothers’ literary tastes. In fact, we said nothing uncomplimentary of our mothers, sisters, wives, and in fact the whole female race, to other gentlemen.” He caressed the word “gentlemen” as it left his lips. Ardent’s ear-tips reddened slightly. The older man saw it and smiled. “I think your mother showed great judgment of character, Jones.”
Ardent, speechless, was grateful that the old goat—as he now mentally described him--next turned away to speak to his aide, who had been standing nearby throughout the exchange; or rather, Ardent thought bitterly, throughout the enjoyment that wealth and age have in victimizing youth and comparative poverty.