“There’s no reason why it shouldn’t work both ways. But fashions are changing, Dad; they go to the divorce courts now.”
“That costs too much, and it’s too slow. Walk out and leave the door standin’ open after you; that’s always been my way. They keep a lookin’ for you to come back for a month or two; then they marry some other man. Well, all of ’em but Rabbit, I reckon.”
“She was the one that remembered.”
“That woman sure is some on the remember, John. Well, I ought ’a’ had my hand read. A man’s a fool to start anything without havin’ it done.”
Dad nursed his regret in silence, his face dim in the starlight. Mackenzie was off with his own thoughts; they might have been miles apart instead of two yards, the quiet of the sheeplands around them. Then Dad:
“So you’re thinkin’ of Mary, are you, John?”
Mackenzie laughed a little, like an embarrassed lover.
“Well, I’ve got my eye on her,” he said.
“No gamble about Mary,” Dad said, in deep earnestness. “Give her a couple of years to fill out and widen in and you’ll have a girl that’ll do any man’s eyes good to see. I thought for a while you had some notions about Joan, and I’m glad to see you’ve changed your mind. Joan’s too sharp for a trustin’ feller like you. She’d run off with some wool-buyer before you’d been married a year.”