She told Marie that after all was said and done, there could not
be any man that would tip the scales one inch with music on the other
side. She was a little hurt, it is true, when Marie only laughed and
answered:
"But what if the man and the music both happen to be on the same side,
my dear; what then?"
Marie's voice was wistful, in spite of the laugh--so wistful that it
reminded Billy of their conversation a few weeks before.
"But it is you, Marie, who want the stockings to darn and the puddings
to make," she retorted playfully. "Not I! And, do you know? I believe I
shall turn matchmaker yet, and find you a man; and the chiefest of his
qualifications shall be that he's wretchedly hard on his hose, and that
he adores puddings."
"No, no, Miss Billy, don't, please!" begged the other, in quick terror.
"Forget all I said the other day; please do! Don't tell--anybody!"
She was so obviously distressed and frightened that Billy was puzzled.
"There, there, 'twas only a jest, of course," she soothed her. "But,
really Marie, it is the dear, domestic little mouse like yourself that
ought to be somebody's wife--and that's the kind men are looking for,
too."
Marie gave a slow shake of her head.
"Not the kind of man that is somebody, that does something," she
objected; "and that's the only kind I could--love.
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