“Why do you say that?” said the Philosopher.
“We were having a great argument along the road, and if we were to be talking from now to the day of doom that argument would never be finished.”
“It must have been a great argument. Was it about predestination or where consciousness comes from?”
“It was not; it was which of these two men was to marry me.”
“That’s not a great argument,” said the Philosopher.
“Isn’t it,” said the woman. “For seven days and six nights we didn’t talk about anything else, and that’s a great argument or I’d like to know what is.”
“But where is the trouble, ma’am?” said the Philosopher.
“It’s this,” she replied, “that I can’t make up my mind which of the men I’ll take, for I like one as well as the other and better, and I’d as soon have one as the other and rather.”
“It’s a hard case,” said the Philosopher.
“It is,” said the woman, “and I’m sick and sorry with the trouble of it.”