Then again she'd cut off the music for days and go to reading books, mostly in the window seat, her head puckered, like it was hard work.
"What're you reading, Hon?" says I one day. "Seems to me it must be a bad-luck story. Also, why have you took to reading books upside down?"
"Nonsense!" says she. "I been brushing up in my sikeology," says she. "That was one of our senior studies—the last year I had in Smith's, you know."
"What's it for?" says I. "Does it say anything about whether it's going to rain next Tuesday?" I ast her.
"Well, it's something needed to train us to meet the problems of life as they arrive, Curly," says she.
"Does it show you how to look any young fellow in the face," says I—"one that's got his hair combed back and no part in it, and playing La Paloma on a banjo or a guitar, and guess what he's thinking about, Bonnie?" says I.
She got a little red and tapped her foot on the carpet.
"What do you mean, Curly?" says she.
"Nothing," says I. "Only I was wondering if they'd put me in a long coat at the wedding. I never was backed into one of 'em in my whole life."
"Well, Curly," says she, "if you wait for my wedding you may need the long coat for your funeral first."