“Wilbur, your fiance.”
“His name is Jack. Don’t jump on a good man when he’s down.”
“Of course he’s a good man, or you wouldn’t have picked him.” They plowed along the sandy road. “But even so—look here, lady. Listen to a man of the world. Marriage is the last resort of feeble minds.”
“Think so?”
“I know it. Oh, I’ve given the matter some thought. I’ve had to. There’s my own case. Now and then I’ve met a girl whose eyes said,’Well, I might.’But I’ve been cautious. Hold fast, my lad—that’s my motto.”
“And you’ve held fast?”
“You bet. Glad of it, too. I’m free. I’m having a swell time. When evening comes, and the air’s full of zip and zowie, and the lights flicker round Union Square, I just reach for my hat. And who says, in a gentle patient voice,’Where are you going, my dear? I’ll go with you.’”
“Nobody.”
“Not a living soul. It’s grand. And you—your case is just like mine. Of course there are millions of girls who have nothing better to do than marriage. All right for them. But you—why—you’ve got a wonderful job. The desert, the hills, the canyons—and you’re willing to give all that up for a gas-range in the rear room of an apartment.”
“Perhaps we can afford a maid.”
“Lots of people can—but where to get one nowadays? I’m warning you—think it over well. You’re having a great time now—that will end with marriage. Mending Wilbur’s socks—”
