“Certainly.”
Tillie hitched her chair closer.
“I'm up against something, and I can't seem to make up my mind. Last night I said to myself, 'I've got to talk to some woman who's not married, like me, and not as young as she used to be. There's no use going to Mrs. McKee: she's a widow, and wouldn't understand.'”
Harriet's voice was a trifle sharp as she replied. She never lied about her age, but she preferred to forget it.
“I wish you'd tell me what you're getting at.”
“It ain't the sort of thing to come to too sudden. But it's like this. You and I can pretend all we like, Miss Harriet; but we're not getting all out of life that the Lord meant us to have. You've got them wax figures instead of children, and I have mealers.”
A little spot of color came into Harriet's cheek. But she was interested. Regardless of the corset, she bent forward.
“Maybe that's true. Go on.”
“I'm almost forty. Ten years more at the most, and I'm through. I'm slowing up. Can't get around the tables as I used to. Why, yesterday I put sugar into Mr. Le Moyne's coffee—well, never mind about that. Now I've got a chance to get a home, with a good man to look after me—I like him pretty well, and he thinks a lot of me.”
“Mercy sake, Tillie! You are going to get married?”