"How about you?"
"Me?"
"Isn't the—sort of life you are living becoming a bit tiresome? Aren't you about fed up on uncertainties?" The object of these queries drew a deep breath; her eyelids flickered, but she continued to stare at the speaker. "Worry brings deeper wrinkles than old age. Wouldn't you like to tie to something solid and be able to show Bennie that you are, at heart, the sort of woman I consider you? He'll soon be getting old enough to wonder if you are what he thinks you are or if—"
"I suppose you learned this—bayonet practice in the army," Mrs. Fulton said, hoarsely.
"Anybody can make a good living in a country like this if he cares enough to try. I'll back you if you need money."
"And—what's the price?"
"My price? Oh, I'd feel well repaid if some day Bennie acknowledged that I was a 'regular guy,' and if you agreed."
"Is that all?"
"Quite all. Is there something you do—well?"
"I can cook. I'm a good cook. Women like me usually have hobbies they never can follow—and I have two. I can make a fool of a stove, and I—I can design children's clothes, wonderful things, new things—"