can't talk.

Honest, my fair young brow is commencing to get wrinkled trying to dope
out whether I want to become a bride or lead the free and easy life of a
bachelor girl.

Of course, if I get married and don't like it divorces are easy enough
to get, and then being a widow saves a girl a whole lot of
embarrassment, for she don't have to pretend to not understand some of
the innuendoes that are now and then sprung during the modern
conversations.

But, on the other hand, Wilbur isn't there with a very big fresh air
fund, and by perseverance I might cop out a Pittsburg millionaire and
become famous.

Marriage is worse than a lottery; it's a strong second for the show
business. You never can tell.

Wilbur sure does treat me nice--he's promised that I shall be a flower
girl at the Friar Festival when it comes off in May. Ain't that nice of
him?

Gee, but that's going to be the grand doings.

Are you going to the ball?

Say, the round of festivities I am pulling off lately would make a
person think I was a society bud.