“It looks that way,” replied Dick, feebly; “but may be it’s only the—the ulsters.”
“No,” said Miss Euphrosyne. “The ulsters are a part of it; but the whole thing is wrong, Mr. Cutter; and I see it all now. I didn’t realize what it meant. But my eyes have been opened. Nine young unmarried women can not go West with a young man—if you had heard what people were saying all around us in the cars—you don’t know. We’ve got to give up the idea. Oh, but it was awful!”
Miss Euphrosyne, trembling, hid her face in her hands. Her tears trickled out through her thin fingers.
“And the old house is sold! What shall we do? Where shall we go?” she cried, forgetting Dick utterly, lost and helpless.
Dick was stalking up and down the room.
“It would be all right,” he demanded, “if there was a married woman to lead the gang, and if—if—if we caught on to something new in the ulster line?”
“It might be different,” Miss Euphrosyne admitted, with a sob. Speaking came hard to her. She was tired: well nigh worn out.
“THEN,” said Dick, with tremendous emphasis, “what’s the matter with my marrying one of you?”
“Why, Mr. Cutter!” Miss Euphrosyne cried, “I had no idea that you—you—ever—thought of—is it Clytie?”