Sally smiled very slightly and very soberly. "Nothing much. Nothing worth mentioning."
They relapsed into silence again, but after a while Sally spoke.
"Would you—would you be much disappointed, Fox," she asked, without looking at him, "if I gave up teaching? Would it seem as if I were throwing away all these years of preparation?"
"No," he answered, meeting her serious mood, "I don't see that it would. And I don't see that it matters to anybody but yourself just when you give it up. There is no reason, now, for your keeping on with it unless you want to. You will have to give it up soon anyway."
Sally looked up at him quickly. "Why, Fox? Why will I have to?"
Fox evaded this question for the time, at any rate. "Why have you thought of giving it up now, Sally? Do the poor kids prove too trying?"
Sally nodded. "I am ashamed of it. I'm not fitted for it. I haven't patience enough—with stupidity. But what did you mean by saying that I would have to give it up soon?"
"Why," Fox replied, casting an embarrassed glance in Mrs. Ladue's direction, "when you are married, you know—"
"Oh," Sally cried with a quick and vivid blush—a rush of blood to the head, no less,—"oh, but I shan't. I never shall."
Mrs. Ladue appeared to think it a fitting time to slip away quietly.