The two Aunts exchanged an anxious glance. “Lore?” said Aunt Fanny. “Who are her people . . . Huh? . . .”
“Let me see,” said Wilfred, “her father was a letter carrier in Memphis. Or else he was the garbage collector. I forget.”
“Wilfred!”
“Well, it doesn’t signify, does it? Frances Mary stands on her own bottom.”
“Wilfred!”
“Oh, Aunt! I didn’t mean what you mean!”
“Seriously, Wilfred,” said Aunt May, “you are twenty-six years old. . . .”
“We should hate to see you marry on South Washington Square,” put in Aunt Fanny.
Aunt May frowned at Aunt Fanny. This was too direct.
Wilfred grinned at them both. An outrageous retort trembled on his tongue, but he bit it back. After all, they were dear old dears. And he was his own man now. “Well, thank God! that’s not an issue,” he said. “I don’t want to marry and I couldn’t if I did!”