“And go out and live on an Oregon ranch, old dear?”
“Yes.”
He laughed aloud this time.
“You’d look sweet in a sunbonnet and gingham dress.”
“Just what do you mean by that?” she asked, not quite sure what emphasis to put on “sweet.”
“Just this! You belong here as surely as grease-paint belongs in the theater.”
“No woman belongs here,” she flung at him. “There isn’t a woman made who hasn’t the right to a home.”
“Then why does she start here?”
“Because she’s young and a fool—in nine cases out of ten. Because she thinks this is living.”
[134]
] Her face went hard as nails; with contempt, with futility, with derisive defiance of herself. And then furtively she pulled a bit of lace from her bag and dabbed at her eyes.