Her father, twinkling, teased her, "You see--?"
She shrugged, "All the same, I didn't need them."
Hilda, putting things back on the tray, remarked: "There was a message
from Mrs. Witherspoon. Her son is on leave for the week end. She
wants you for dinner on Saturday night--both of you."
Doctor McKenzie tapped a finger on the table thoughtfully, "Oh, does
she? Do you want to go, Jeanie?"
"Yes. Don't you?"
"I am not sure. I should like to build a fence about you, my dear, and
never let a man look over. Ralph Witherspoon wants to marry her,
Hilda, what do you think of that?"
"Well, why not?" Hilda laid her long hands flat on the table, leaning
on them.
Jean felt little prickles of irritability. "Because I don't want to
get married, Hilda."
Hilda gave her a sidelong glance, "Of course you do. But you don't
know it."
She went out with her tray. Jean turned, white-faced, to her father,
"I wish she wouldn't say such things--"
"My dear, I am afraid you don't quite do her justice."
"Oh, well, we won't talk about her. I've got to go to bed, Daddy."
She kissed him wistfully.
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