"I shan't
marry till I find the right man. I'm a fatalist. I believe there's
a man for me somewhere, and that he'll find me, though I was hid--
was hid--even here." And she gazed romantically round at the
enclosing walls of foliage.
The resolute lines, the "unfeminine" expression disappeared from
her sister's face. She laughed softly and tenderly. "What a dear
you are!" she cried.
"You can scoff all you please," retorted Lucia, stoutly. "I
believe it. We'll see if I'm not right. ...How lovely you did look
last night! ... You wait for your 'right man.' Don't let them
hurry you. The most dreadful things happen as the result of girls'
hurrying, and then meeting him when it's too late."
"Not to women who have the right sort of pride." Margaret drew
herself up, and once more her far-away but decided resemblance to
Grandmother Bowker showed itself. "I'd never be weak enough to
fall in love unless I wished."
"That's not weakness; it's strength," declared Lucia, out of the
fulness of experience gleaned from a hundred novels or more.
Margaret shook her head uncompromisingly. "It'd be weakness for
me." She dropped upon the bench beside her sister.
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