"Maybe so."
Yet he agreed. She was a peach, and he took no pains to conceal his appraisal from his parents that evening.
"Seen Old Planter's daughter yet?"
His father, a drooping, tired figure in the dusk of the little porch, nodded.
"I haven't," his mother called from the kitchen. "Is she as pretty as she was last summer?"
"Pretty!" he scoffed. "Who was the prettiest woman in the world?"
"I don't know," came the interested voice from the house. "Maybe the Queen of Sheba."
"Then," George said, "she'd have cried her eyes out if she had seen Old Planter's girl."
The elder Morton took his pipe from his mouth.
"Young men like you," he said, slowly, "haven't any business looking at girls like Old Planter's daughter."