VIII
A failure! Her little first-born idea had flivvered! Would she ever have another? Yes! She had another almost immediately—of the same kind. She must keep Maurice from marrying Edith and to do that it was necessary—not for her to live. No, that would be good for only twenty or twenty-five years or maybe thirty—if she lived to be eighty. Maurice would be only sixty then and Edith fifty and they might still marry.
She must do better than that. He must marry Lily! Lily would live at least fifty years more. By that time Maurice would surely be dead and Edith foiled, forever. She, herself, must die at once so Maurice might marry Lily....
It was the place of their honeymoon. But the river looked wet! Suppose it was? Her skirts would get wet! To keep her coat dry she left it on the bank. Her hat? She’d wear that to keep her hair dry.
Feet in the water, ankle deep! It was wet! Oh, bother! Above her knees now! Still wet—such a nuisance! She fell full length! Wet all over!!! She couldn’t stand that! That was too much of a wetness! No, no, she’d better go home and try something new.
So she tried pneumonia.
IX
“Of course, now that poor Eleanor is gone,” said Maurice, “I’ll have to look out for Jacky and Lily. I think I’ll marry Lily.”
“Of course not,” said Aunt Mary, and Uncle Henry agreed.
“Well, then, I don’t think I’ll marry any one. Although Lily is an excellent cook.”