“I am eighteen and over,” I said. “If you don’t have daydreams when you are eighteen, when will you have them?”
“True for you, Azalea,” cried my aunt with her high laugh. “Pay no attention to him. I was just turned seventeen when we became engaged.”
“The circumstances were peculiar,” said my uncle, rather red in the face.
“They were,” said my aunt. “You wanted me, and you were afraid I might—want someone else.”
“But we waited,” said my uncle, “a long, long time.”
“Two years and three months,” said my aunt.
“Few, however, would be justified in marrying so young,” said my uncle. “But we were peculiarly suited to each other. Both families approved. You, my dear Azalea, have not been so situated as to see much of people in your own station of life, so it will probably be many years before you will have any occasion to ask my mother for her old white satin wedding gown.”
I said nothing at all but just smiled at the fire. I could feel Uncle David still watching me. At last he said:
“Why are you smiling?”
“I am happy.”