Eleanor was
thirty-four if a day--a nice enough woman, of course, and college bred,
and cultivated, and clever--but her long suit wasn't good looks. She was
tall and bony; worshipped genius and all that; and played the violin.
"No," repeated Freddy, "I shall never, never marry before Eleanor. It
would mortify her--I know it would--and make her feel that she herself
had failed. She's awfully frank about those things, Ezra--surprisingly
frank. I don't see why being an old maid is always supposed to be so
funny, do you? It's touching and tragic in a woman who'd like to marry
and who isn't asked!"
"But Eleanor must have had heaps of offers," I said, "surely--"
"Just one."
"Well, one's something," I remarked cheerfully. "Why didn't she take him
then?"
"She told me only last night that she was sorry she hadn't!"
Here, at any rate, was something to chew on. I saw a gleam of hope. Why
shouldn't Eleanor marry the only one--and make us all happy!
"That was three years ago," said Freddy.
"I have loved you for four," I retorted.
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