"Why aren't you goin'?" Martha pursued. "Why? What'll your father say? And Michael? And Potch? We'd all been looking forward to seein' you there like you used to be, Sophie. And ... here was me doin' up my dress extra special, thinkin' Sophie'll be that grand in the dresses she's brought from America ... we'll all have to smarten a bit to keep up with her...."
Tears swam in Sophie's eyes at the naïve and genial admiration of what Martha had said.
"It'll spoil the ball if you're not there," Martha insisted, her iron flashing vigorously. "It just won't be—the ball—and everything looking as if it were goin' to be the biggest ball ever was on the Ridge. Everybody'll be that disappointed——"
"Do you think they will, Martha?" Sophie queried.
"I don't think; I know."
A little smile, sceptical yet wistful, hovered in Sophie's eyes.
"And it don't seem fair to Potch neither."
"Potch?"
"Yes ... you hidin' yourself away as if you weren't happy—and going to marry the best lad in the country." The iron came down emphatically, Martha working it as vigorously and intently as she was thinking.
"There's some says Potch isn't a match for you now, Sophie. Not since you went away and got manners and all.... They can't tell why you're goin' to marry Potch. But as I said to Mrs. Watty the other day, I said: 'Sophie isn't like that. She isn't like that at all. It's the man she goes for, and Potch is good enough for a princess to take up with.' That's what I said; and I don't mind who knows it...."