“My land! no,” said Sylvia. “Men do act queer sometimes.”
“I should think so, if this is a sample of it,” said Rose, eying the trampled candy. “Why, he ground his heel into it! What right had he to tell me I should or should not eat it?” she said, indignantly, again.
“None at all. Men are queer. Even Mr. Whitman is queer sometimes.”
“If he is as queer as that, I don't see how you have lived with him so long. Did he ever make you drop a nice box of candy somebody had given you, and trample on it, and then walk off?”
“No, I don't know as he ever did; but men do queer things.”
“I don't like Mr. Allen at all,” said Rose, walking beside Sylvia towards the house. “Not at all. I don't like him as well as Mr. James Duncan.”
Sylvia looked at her with quick alarm. “The man who wrote you last week?”
“Yes, and wanted to know if there was a hotel here so he could come.”
“I thought—” began Sylvia.
“Yes, I had begun the letter, telling him the hotel wasn't any good, because I knew he would know what that meant—that there was no use in his asking me to marry him again, because I never would; but now I think I shall tell him the hotel is not so bad, after all,” said Rose.