“Oh, Letitia!” he exclaimed in quite a different tone—a man’s tone of sudden revolt and protest. “Tod McCormick?”
“Yes, of course, Tod McCormick. I should think you would have guessed him in a minute.”
“He’s the last person I ever should have thought of.”
“Well, isn’t that odd! Everybody knows Tod’s been fond of me. It’s been going on for years—five or six, I should think.”
“A woman doesn’t marry a man because he happens to be fond of her. She marries a man because she happens to be fond of him.”
“She sometimes does—if she’s very lucky, and things turn out exactly right. But things don’t often turn out exactly right. Besides, I like Tod.”
“Yes—like him, of course. Everybody likes him. Maud likes him, and Mortimer, and, I’ve no doubt, hundreds of other people. But liking’s a poor sort of thing to marry on. It’s a bad substitute for love. A woman ought to love the man she marries.”
“Yes, I suppose she ought; and in novels she always does—unless she hates him terribly. But in real life girls don’t love or hate so desperately as all that. We just go along easily, taking things as they come.”
“Why are you going to marry him, if you don’t love him?” he asked in a tone of irritation.