"It would look queer. People might—think."
"Well, they 'thought' about that poor little woman."
"Idiots! She's a hundred years old!" Mary said, jealously.
"She wasn't when he was born," her husband said, wearily. He probably loved his wife, but since that day when she had flung away the lure of mystery, her mind had ceased to interest him. This was cruel and unjust, but it was male human nature.
"Why don't you get acquainted with the youngster?" Carl said, yawning.
"Carl! You know it wouldn't do. Besides, how could I?"
"We could take the house ourselves next summer. There's some furniture in it still. It would come about naturally enough. And he would be at our gates."
"Oh no—no! Maybe he looks like me."
"No, he doesn't. Didn't I tell you he isn't particularly good-looking?"
"Maybe he looks like you?" she objected, simply.