"To hear you talk, I'd think marriage was a business, like groceries."
Mrs. Warham thought it was, in a sense. But she would never have dared say so aloud, even to her husband—or, rather, especially to her husband. In matters of men and women he was thoroughly innocent, with the simplicity of the old-time man of the small town and the country; he fancied that, while in grocery matters and the like the world was full of guile, in matters of the heart it was idyllic, Arcadian, with never a thought of duplicity, except among a few obviously wicked and designing people.
"I guess we both want to see Ruth married well," was all she could venture.
"I'd rather the girls stayed with us," declared Warham. "I'd hate to give them up."
"Of course," hastily agreed Fanny. "Still—it's the regular order of nature."
"Oh, Ruth'll marry—only too soon," said Warham. "And marry well. I'm not so sure, though, that marrying any of old Wright's breed would be marrying what ought to be called well. Money isn't everything—not by a long sight—though, of course, it's comfortable."
"I never heard anything against Sam," protested Mrs. Warham.
"You've heard what I've heard—that he's wild and loose. But then you women like that in a man."
"We've got to put up with it, you mean," cried Fanny, indignant.
"Women like it," persisted Warham. "And I guess Sam's only sowing the usual wild oats, getting ready to settle. No, mother, you let Ruth alone. If she wants him, she'll get him—she or Susan."