“I never wanted to marry,” Julie said hastily, an uncomfortable restraint falling upon her.
“Oh yes, that’s just what every old maid says, if you’ll excuse me,” Mrs. Anderson retorted.
“No—but it’s true; I mean it,” Julie protested. “I—I always just hated the idea of getting married. It scares me to think of it.”
They were passing under an electric light, and Mrs. Anderson looked down at her curiously. “Well, now, ain’t that funny? I just believe that’s so,” she stated. “An’ it ain’t for want of chances, neither. There was Sam Dodson—he courted you, didn’t he?”
Julie was silent, but in the street light Mrs. Anderson could see the nervous self-consciousness of her face.
“Oh, all right, don’t tell, then,” she continued. “But everybody knows he did, an’ Pinckney Wayland, too—and wasn’t there a drummer feller from Cincinnati? Why, Julie, you’ve had a heap of chances. Most people would brag about ’em. Scary as you are, I’d think you’d want to be married an’ have a man ’round to look after you—There! there, now!” She stopped again, dramatically.
“What is it? Your teeth?” Julie inquired, with concern.
“No, but I got an idea. It’s come to me all of a sudden. I just believe I’ll make a match between you and the new preacher. Now I think that’d be real suitable. He’s about the right age for you, an’ maybe marrying a widower like that wouldn’t scare you s’ much.”
Julie quickened her pace nervously, walking with averted eyes.
“Widowers, now,” Mrs. Anderson pursued, “They’re broke to double harness already—they ain’t so hard to drive as a colt.”