“No, no, I shan't. Serena may, perhaps, but I shan't.”
“Yes, you will. You both have seen a little of outside life now, and it isn't all bad, though you may think so just at this time. You mustn't settle down and grow narrow like some of the people here in Trumet—Abigail Mayo, for instance.”
“Humph! I'd have to swallow a self-windin' talkin' machine before I could get to be like Abigail Mayo. But you may be right, Gertie; perhaps you are. See here, though, how about you, yourself? You've seen a heap more of what you call outside life than your ma and I have. How are YOU goin' to keep contented here in Trumet?”
“Oh, I shall be contented. Don't worry about me.”
“But I do worry, and your mother is beginnin' to worry, too. There's somethin' troublin' you; both of us see that plain enough. See here, Gertie, you ain't—you ain't feelin' bad about—about leavin' that Cousin Percy, are you?”
The young lady's cheeks reddened, but with indignation, not embarrassment.
“DADDY!” she protested sharply. “Daddy, how can you! Cousin Percy!”
“Well, you know—”
“I hate him. I've told you so. Or I should, if he was worth hating; as it is I despise him thoroughly.”
“That's good! That's one load off my mind. But, you see, Gertie—well, when your mother and I first told you we'd made up our minds to come back here, you—you stood up for him, and said he was aristocratic and—and I don't know what all. That's what you said; and 'twas after the Zuba business, too.”