"But suppose you don't marry?" pursued her friend.
"Oh, but I shall marry—you see if I don't. Marriage"—here she carefully went inside the gate and latched it—"marriage is—a woman's duty!" And she ran up the path laughing.
Vivian laughed too, rather grimly, and slowly walked towards her own door.
The little sitting-room was hot, very hot; but Mr. Lane sat with his carpet-slippered feet on its narrow hearth with a shawl around him.
"Shut the door, Vivian!" he exclaimed irritably. "I'll never get over this cold if such draughts are let in on me."
"Why, it's not cold out, Father—and it's very close in here."
Mrs. Lane looked up from her darning. "You think it's close because you've come in from outdoors. Sit down—and don't fret your father; I'm real worried about him."
Mr. Lane coughed hollowly. He had become a little dry old man with gray, glassy eyes, and had been having colds in this fashion ever since Vivian could remember.
"Dr. Bellair says that the out-door air is the best medicine for a cold," remarked Vivian, as she took off her things.