“Oh, it was the Other Fellow’s turn,” he went on. “Say,” he added, “how often are you going to let me come to see you when you get settled here? Twice a week⁠—three times?”

“As if you wanted to see me as often as that. Why, Landry, I’m growing up to be an old maid. You can’t want to lose your time calling on old maids.”

He was voluble in protestations. He was tired of young girls. They were all very well to dance with, but when a man got too old for that sort of thing, he wanted someone with sense to talk to. Yes, he did. Someone with sense . Why, he would rather talk five minutes with her⁠—

“Honestly, Landry?” she asked, as though he were telling a thing incredible.

He swore to her it was true. His eyes snapped. He struck his palm with his fist.

“An old maid like me?” repeated Laura.