L. Frankland looked over her spectacles and her shoulder, her hands still on the keyboard. "The answer," she said vivaciously, "for a woman is a man; for a man the answer is a woman. Whoever made us knew what he was about, and don't you forget it. What's your idea?"
"Let's hear yours out first."
"Once when I was a young thing," said L. Frankland, swinging around, "I waited for an hour in my wedding dress, but—he never came. He was killed on the way to the church by a runaway horse. I decided to remain true to his memory. I had other chances afterwards, when I was still a young thing," she smiled whimsically, "but I refused them. I'm sorry now."
"Frank, you remember my telling you about that money I owed to the man I—spoke about?"
"Yes."
"And how it worried me?"
"Yes."
"Well, I paid it off last week, and I've been miserable ever since."
"That's because you felt you were snapping the last thread. Is he still in love with you?"
"No. At least I don't see how he could be. It's been so long, and the last time he saw me," Georgia laughed unhappily, "I wasn't very lovely."