"What's the matter, Terry? Why aren't you coming?" Grace asked, with wide eyes full of anxious love, and Theresa, after searching for a way of putting it, replied:
"Well, you see, they are all very nice, but one time is just the same as another, and I think I want to read. I feel dried up inside. And Grace, I can't stand men. They always seem to be expecting something, and they bore me horribly when I'm not wondering how they ever came to be created."
"Yes, that's how you look at them. I'm glad I'm not so particular, though I don't care for any of them."
"That's because there isn't one you haven't been engaged to."
"Theresa, don't be vulgar."
"Isn't it true?"
"No—not quite. And Terry—I think I'm rather tired of gadding about myself. Let's stay at home together and mend our stockings."
"Mine do need it," said Theresa, glancing downward.
"And there's Father."
"Yes."