"Oh, I don't know."
"Very well. You marry; you settle down in his valley. But first you have to learn housekeeping so that you can make an omelette or possibly a pudding for tourists or Englishmen that pass through."
"His valley? Whose valley?"
"You'd much better go to his mother's and learn all the housekeeping you're going to need from her."
"Really, really," she said smiling as she walked on again, "you're quite on the wrong track. It isn't he--it isn't anybody."
"So much the worse for you. There ought to be somebody."
"Yes, but suppose it's not the one I want."
"Oh, yes, it will be the one you want. You're big enough and handsome enough and capable enough."
"Thank you very much, but--well. Thanks so much. Good night."
Why did she break off so suddenly and leave me so hurriedly, almost at a run? Was she crying? I should have liked to have said more, to have been wise and circumstantial and made useful suggestions, but I was left standing in a kind of stupid surprise.