"I shall be twenty-five in August."
"And how long have you been teaching?"
"Eight years."
"Ah! is it eight years since I came and missed you? I remember, the last time we three supped together—you and your father and I—I remember taking note of you, and telling myself, 'She will be married before I return next year.' Why haven't you married?"
It was the essence of Hester Marvin's charm that she dealt straightly with all people.
"It takes two to make even that quarrel," she answered frankly and gaily. "Will you believe that nobody has ever asked me?"
"Make light of it if you will, but I bid you to beware. You were a good-looking missie, and you have grown—yes, one can say it without making you simper—into a more than good-looking woman. But the days slip by, child, and your looks will slip away with them. You are wasting your life in worrying over other folk's children. Those eyes of yours were meant for children of your own. What's more, you are muddling the world's work. Which do you teach now—boys or girls?"
"Girls for the most part; but I have a class of small boys."
"And what do you teach 'em—I mean, as the first and most important thing?"
Hester knit her brows for a moment before answering. "Well, I suppose, to be honourable to one another and gentle to their sisters."