"I'd—. He wouldn't be sorry."
"Um!... Nate Weaver, back country a spell, is lookin' fer a wife. Hain't young. Got lots of money, and the right woman could weasel it out of him. Lots of it.... He'd like you fine. Homer won't have much, and if his pa keeps on feelin' like he does, he won't have none.... If you're lookin' fer a restin' place, you might consider Nate. I could fix it." Her eyes flashed. "I haven't come to that yet," she said, sharply, and then began to cry quietly.
"Um!..." Scattergood gripped his pudgy hands together so that each might restrain the other from patting her head comfortingly. "Um!... What's your name?"
"My name?"
"Yes.... 'Tain't Wife-ette Hinchbrooke. They hain't no sich name. 'Tain't human.... What's your real one?"
"Eva Hopkins."
"How'd you come to change?"
"A girl's got a right to call herself anything she wants to," she said, defensively.
"Except Mrs. Homer Locker," said Scattergood, dryly. "Now jest come off'n your high hoss, and we'll talk. When we git through, we'll do.... Either you'll take the mornin' train out of Coldriver, or you'll stay and we'll see. Depends on what I hear."
"I could lie," she said.