"Oh, I won't make a point of that as long as it doesn't interfere with your work. You may write in off hours as much as you want to. I won't make a point of that."
"You mean to be generous, I can see—but I don't think it likely that I shall ever make up my mind to take a regular job. I'm not built for it."
"You're not thinking about getting married, then, I reckon?"
A dark flush rose to Oliver's forehead, and turning away, he stared with unseeing eyes out of the window.
"No. I haven't any intention of that," he responded.
A certain craftiness appeared in Cyrus's face.
"Well, well, you're young yet, and you may be in want of a wife before you're many years older."
"I'm not the kind to marry. I'm too fond of my freedom."
"Most of us have felt like that at one time or another, but when the thought of a woman takes you by the throat, you'll begin to see things differently. And if you ever do, a good steady job at twelve hundred a year will be what you'll look out for."
"I suppose a man could marry on that down here," said Oliver, half unconscious that he was speaking aloud.