“Yes, foolishness,” repeated Sylvia, with a sort of hysterical violence. She sat out on the front porch with some mending, and she sewed feverishly as she spoke.
“I don't know what you mean by foolishness, I guess, Sylvia.”
Henry sat on the porch step. He wore a black mohair coat, and his thin hair was well brushed.
“It does seem,” said Sylvia, “as if a young man and a young woman might live in the same house and behave themselves.”
Henry stared at her. “Why, Sylvia, you don't mean—”
“I mean just what I said—behave themselves. It does seem sometimes as if everything any girl or young man thought of was falling in love and getting married,” Sylvia said—“falling in love and getting married,” with a bitter and satirical emphasis.
“I don't see,” said Henry, “that there is very much against Mr. Allen and Rose's falling in love and getting married. I think he might do worse, and I think she might. Sometimes I've looked at the two of them and wondered if they weren't just made for each other. I can't see quite what you mean, Sylvia? You don't mean to say that you don't want Mr. Allen ever to get married?”
“He can marry whoever he wants to,” said Sylvia, “but he sha'n't marry her.”
“You don't mean you don't want her ever to get married?”
“Yes, I do mean just that.”