Aunt P. Well, perhaps you are right, yet many of my girlhood friends married at sixteen, and nearly all of them were married by the time they were twenty, that is, of course, those who married at all.
Pauline. And why didn’t you, Auntie dear? Didn’t you ever like any one well enough?
Aunt P. Yes, dearie, I did. I don’t suppose any woman lives to be thirty without liking some one well enough to marry him, if circumstances came about right. But there! They don’t always do it. Would you like to see my old valentines, Pauline?
Pauline. Oh, I would, so much, Auntie dear!
Aunt P. (opening top drawer of stand). Well, dearie, here they are. No post-cards among them. Most of them came from the same one, as you see. This is the last one he ever sent me.
Pauline (opening it.) Did he die, Auntie?
Aunt P. No, he didn’t die, dear. He’s alive still. He got angry at me, that’s all. Talk of girls getting in a huff over nothing! Boys aren’t far behind, let me tell you.
Pauline. And did he marry?
Aunt P. No, he is single still.