"Well, I don't know about that," he said, in a way implying that he did know.
"Don't be cynical, dear," she replied. "We are both young; we have everything before us."
"Everything we had is behind us."
She pulled upon his arm, and kissed his dry cheek. "Don't be downcast. Everything will come right."
Mitchell, the hired man, came out upon the veranda. "A sappy pea-vine and a dried pea-stick," said Milford, pointing toward George and his wife.
"He looks like he's tired," said the hired man.
"Yes, a fly in a pot of jam. She's too sweet for him. He ought to break loose from her and run wild for a while—ought to rough it out West on fat sow bosom and heifer's delight. Never were married, were you, Bob?"
"Well, not for any length of time. I did marry a girl over near Antioch once, but shortly afterwards they took me up for sellin' liquor without a license, and when I got through with the scrape I found my wife was gone with a feller to Kansas."
"Oh, yes, she writ to me. She wanted to come back, but I scratched her word that I'd try to jog along without her. I don't guess women are exactly what they used to be. I reckon the bicycle has changed 'em a good bit."