“He must be over fifty,” said he.
“He is the man I am going to marry,” said she.
“I saw by the papers that were sent to me from time to time that you had many suitors,” said he. “I did not pay much attention to the papers, but now I recollect that some of them made sport of an elderly admirer. I suppose Mr. Long was he?”
“I daresay. Mr. Long cannot help his age. ’Tis not more absurd for him to be old than it is for me to be young. I suppose some newspapers would think it no shame to slight me for being young.”
He gave a passable imitation of an Italian’s shrug—he had learned something beyond the playing of the violin in Italy.
“Che sarà sarà,” said he, and there was a shrug in his voice. “After all, what does it matter whom one marries?”
“That’s exactly what I say!” she cried, her quick ear catching his cynical tone. “What does it matter? I must marry some one, and is it not better for me to marry a man to whom I am indifferent than one whom I detest?”
He mused for a few moments, and then he said:
“I have not given much thought to the matter, but I think I should prefer marrying a woman who hated me rather than one who looked on me with indifference. Never mind. I suppose this Mr. Long is rich?”