“I wish I knew if you meant it,” sighed the mother.
“My dear, I have given myself to the stage. You will never see me being led to the altar.”
“No, you will do the leading when the time comes,” retorted the mother.
“Mother, the men I like you may count upon the fingers of one hand. Three of them are old. For the rest, I despise men.”
“I suppose some day you will marry some poverty-stricken artist,” said the mother, filled with dark foreboding.
“You would not call Donald poverty-stricken.”
“No. But you will never marry him.”
“No. I never shall.”
Celeste smoothed her hands, a little trick she had acquired from long hours spent at the piano. “He will make some woman a good husband.”
“That he will.”