“I just meant I wasn’t going to marry him—nor anybody!” She lifted her head with a little defiant movement.
Uncle William’s gaze was sober. “You don’t mean you promised him and then wouldn’t—?” He was looking at her over his spectacles.
She nodded her head over the potatoes, biting her lip a little. “I only loved his hair anyway,” she said. There was silence in the room, and the faint sound of voices came from the beach.
“He had curly hair,” she said, “and it was yellow—like gold—and all the other girls wanted him—”
“George’s hair is black,” said Uncle William hopefully, “—most black.”
She looked at him—and the eyes danced a little behind their mistiness, “I wouldn’t marry a man—not if his hair was coal-black, nor if ’twas yellow, nor brown, nor any color—I’ve got you to take care of and that’s enough!” She glanced at him, almost tenderly, and carried the potatoes to the sink. “It makes you feel foolish,” she said, splashing the water into the pan and moving the potatoes about—“It’s foolish caring about folks and thinking they’re beautiful—and then finding out that they’re selfish—and stupid and lazy—!”
Uncle William looked out at the sun. “It’s getting late,” he said.
He moved toward the door and stood with his back to her. “I like to have folks get married, Celia—” he said slowly, “I like to think about homes and buildin’ ’em on the Island—and little ones coming—Don’t you like to think about it that way?”
Her hands dabbled in the water thoughtfully. “I don’t know’s I do,” she said. “I’ve got a home now—with you—”
“It ain’t real—not a real home,” said Uncle William quickly.