“Signs! If you don't get those ridiculous story-book notions out of your head I don't know what I'll do to you. What do you know about folks bein' in love? You ain't in love, I hope; are you?”
Imogene hesitated. “No, ma'am,” she replied. “I ain't. But—but maybe I might be, if I wanted to.”
“For mercy sakes! The girl's crazy. You MIGHT be—if you wanted to! Who with? If you're thinkin' of marryin' anybody seems to me I ought to know it. Why, you ain't met more'n a dozen young fellers in this town, and I've taken good care to know who they were. If you're thinkin' of fallin' in love—or marryin'—”
Imogene interrupted. “I ain't,” she declared. “And, anyhow, ma'am, gettin' married don't necessarily mean you're in love.”
“It don't! Well, this beats all I ever—”
“No, ma'am, it don't. Sometimes it's a person's duty to get married.”
Thankful gasped. “Duty!” she repeated. “You HAVE been readin' more of those books, in spite of your promisin' me you wouldn't.”
“No, ma'am, I ain't. Honest, I ain't.”
“Then what do you mean? Imogene, what man do you care enough for to make you feel it's your—your duty to marry him?”
“No man at all,” declared Imogene, promptly and decisively. And that is all she would say on the subject.