“I’ll kill him if he ever crosses my doorstep again!”
To which Immy responded demurely:
“Then I’ll have to meet him outside.”
This defiance was smothering. She went on:
“Why shouldn’t I marry him? I don’t have to tell him anything. He doesn’t ask me any questions. Doesn’t dare start the question game, perhaps. He’s lots of fun. He keeps me laughing and interested, and—guessing.”
This was such a pasquinade on the usual romantic reasons, that her father could contrive no better rejoinder than:
“But my little sweetheart, such a marriage would be bound to fail.”
This soft answer drove Immy to a grosser procacity:
“Then I can divorce him easily enough. I can join the crowd and go to Michigan. After two years of residence, I could get a divorce on any one of seven grounds!”
“Immy!”