“Well,” reluctantly, “maybe I did just a bit. We too have been engaged quite a while.”
“Almost as long as the Randalls.”
“Yes.”
The quizzical look left Armstrong’s eyes, but he said nothing.
“And I suppose every woman wants a home of her own. It’s an instinct. I think I understand Margery.”
From out the porch of the Gleason cottage, shaded from the curious by its climbing rose-vines, the girl looked forth at the sputtering electric globe on the corner.
“And, besides, people get to talking and smiling and making it unpleasant for a girl after so long. It was so with Margery. I know, although she never told me. It bothered her.”
“You say after so long, Elice. How long?”
“I didn’t mean any particular length of time, Steve. There isn’t any rule by which you can measure gossip, so far as I know.”