“Whatcha doing that for?” Willy asked one afternoon. We were sitting in the arbour. I told him Mrs. Bradly thought you had to be trimmed a lot in New York.
“Well, it is,” he said, looking at my skirt a little doubtfully, “and it doesn’t look like you.”
That annoyed me because I’d pricked my fingers a lot.
“It’s got to,” I said. “I’m going to wear it.”
“You’ll have it ripped off in two days,” he replied. “I know you. You’ll shin up something, or slide down something, and that stuff’ll trail behind you for blocks.”
“What’ll I slide down in New York?” I asked resentfully.
“Oh,” he answered, “there are fire-escapes.” I sniffed at that. I never dreamed I ever would--but of course that time I didn’t know what was coming. After that we were quiet. I sewed hard, and Willy looked at me. I felt him, as you do, and wondered whether I was losing my petticoat or anything. When he spoke he did something noble, which I shall never forget.
“Look here, Nat,” he said, after a cough.
“I can’t,” I answered. “I have nine more yards of this stuff to lam on. It goes around the sleeves too.”
“Well,” he said, and his voice was very gruff, “it’s this way; if you get too darned homesick you can always come back and marry me.”