“But there are several who would marry Constance in a minute if she’d only give any one of them the smallest encouragement; and that’s what I mean when I complain of her being so unimpressionable. Muriel and Doris like our set of men well enough, and I don’t see what right she has to be so over-particular.”
Mrs. Ferguson rose and began the adjustment of her wrap, while saying, “It seems to me there is but one thing for you to do, Anne.”
“What?” eagerly questioned Mrs. Durant.
“Indulge in a little judicious matchmaking,” suggested the friend, as she held out her hand.
“It’s utterly useless, Josie. I’ve tried again and again, and every time have only done harm.”
“How?”
“She won’t—she is so suspicious. Now, last winter, Weston Curtis was sending her flowers and—and, oh, all that sort of thing, and so I invited him to dinner several times, and always put him next Constance, and tried to help him in other ways, until she—well, what do you think that girl did?”
Mrs. Ferguson’s interest led her to drop her outstretched hand. “Requested you not to?” she asked.
“Not one word did she have the grace to say to me, Josie, but she wrote to him, and asked him not to send her any more flowers! Just think of it.”
“Then that’s why he went to India.”