“Why is Betty so anxious to marry you off?” came suddenly from the corner beside me.
Mr. Albertson assumed his original shape as a marriageable male with a bald spot and a cotton mill, and Betty slipped back into position. I wasn’t sure she couldn’t drag any one to the altar if she made up her mind to it. My voice showed the oppression of this thought.
“She thinks all women should be married.”
“You have been married.”
Something was the matter with Roger to say that.
“Well, she thinks I’m poor and lonely.”
“Are you?”
I began to have an uncomfortable, complicated feeling. Fear was in it, also exhilaration. It made me sit up stiffly, suddenly conscious of a sensation of trembling somewhere inside.
“I am poor,” I said, “that is, poor compared to people like Betty.”
“And lonely, too?”