There was laughter in her eyes.
Louisa could not pierce beneath that laughter to find if there
were anything under it.
"Fudge!" said Louisa. "What on earth did you and Peter quarrel about?"
she added, curiously.
"I've often wondered," parried Nancy.
"And you've never seen him since?" reflected Louisa.
"No. Has he changed much?"
"Well, some. He is gray and kind of tired-looking. But
it isn't to be wondered at--living the life he does.
He hasn't had a housekeeper for two years--not since his old
aunt died. He just lives there alone and cooks his own meals.
I've never been in the house, but folks say the disorder
is something awful."
"Yes, I shouldn't think Peter was cut out for a tidy housekeeper,"
said Nancy lightly, dragging up more mint. "Just think, Louisa, if it
hadn't been for that old quarrel I might be Mrs. Peter Wright
at this very moment, mother to the aforesaid supposed half dozen,
and vexing my soul over Peter's meals and socks and cows."
"I guess you are better off as you are," said Louisa.
"Oh, I don't know." Nancy looked up at the white house on
the hill again. "I have an awfully good time out of life,
but it doesn't seem to satisfy, somehow. To be candid--
and oh, Louisa, candour is a rare thing among women when it comes
to talking of the men--I believe I'd rather be cooking Peter's
meals and dusting his house.
Pages:
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297