"Nineteen."
"Hmmn! Younger than I thought. Still, a Southern girl—"
"Can be just as decent as any other kind!" cried angry Joan. "Anyway, I'm only part a Southern girl. But I know! Lots of them are just as nice about such things as Betty, for instance."
"Nice, of course," agreed Mrs. Rossiter. "And tremendously attractive. But just for that reason a little more—well, experienced, don't you think? We get our experience later, perhaps.... And you seemed particularly well-seasoned, able to take care of yourself, playing them off against each other like a little veteran. I've told Jane Desmond so more than once. She wanted to warn you—but I told her you knew the ropes."
"I didn't," said Joan tremulously, "Warn me of what?"
"Why, of Ned. She was afraid you might really land him. The wariest of fish takes the hook at last!"
Joan winced at the remark, but she was too busy getting to the bottom of things to resent it.
"Why did she object to my marrying him?"
Mrs. Rossiter stared. "Good Lord! Well, because she's got a girl of her own, for one thing. Because she's married to a Desmond herself, for another. She knows the breed, poor Jane!"
Light was breaking on Joan. "You mean—she objected for my sake?"