"I promise I won't look when you meet."
"Oh, Jack! Let's get to work. I do wish sometimes we were all one sex."
Neville's promise was an unnecessary one, for Theresa did not see more than Morton's coat hanging in the hall until the second evening of his visit, when he called on her father.
"The flower-man's come," said Bessie, flapping into the kitchen where Theresa was making soup.
"The flower-man?"
"I mean the young feller that brought them on New Year's Day."
"Oh!" said Theresa, on a long, indifferent note, and stirred steadily.
"Miss Terry, is he coming after you?"
"I don't know, Bessie." She spoke in a voice that had the clear emptiness of a puzzled child's. "I don't know," she repeated, and then her uncouth young womanhood came strongly on her. "Oh, Bessie, Bessie, I think it's terrible to be a woman—terrible. Men—oh—and yet I know it is our destiny. Nature drives us. And I'm pushing against the chariot she sits in, pushing, pushing"—she brandished the wooden spoon—"and I know I shall be beaten in the end."
"Oh, Miss Terry, you've dropped some soup on your dress. Just look at that!"