"Because—because—you like him too." Daphne's pretty face colored.
"Well, why shouldn't you?" said Drusilla.
"Mother says that he's only a poor doctor, that he's not the kind that'll ever make money."
"Money—money! Why, he'll always make enough for you to live on, and more money'd only be used to buy amusements to keep you from thinkin'; but the way you and him could live together, you'd like to think. So what's the use of money?"
"But Mother says—"
"Now, Daphne, I don't want to say nothin' about your mother. She's been real neighborly to me so far as she knows how, but she's too society for me, and we ain't got one thing that we can talk to each other about. She thinks more about the polish of a person's fingernails or the set of her dress than she does about the color of a soul or the heart that looks out from the eyes, but—I shouldn't say that—your mother is your mother and she means well by you, and you must respect her judgments."
Daphne looked up with a twinkle in her eyes.
"Her judgment in regard to Dr. Eaton, too?"
"Well," said Drusilla, "I wouldn't go so far as that; but—what else did she say besides that you wouldn't have enough to eat?"
"Oh, of course she didn't say that, but she said that he could never afford to give me a motor car or—"