cornered, so he can't even see Ruth Clinton. She is too old for him."
And Tom's mother looked at me over the orange-peel as to a confederate.

"Humph, I'd like to see you or Molly or any woman 'corner' Tom Pollard,"
said Mrs. Johnson with a wry smile as she tasted the concoction in the
wine-glass.

"I have to put him at the end of the table because he is my kinsman and
the only host I've got at present, Aunt Bettie," I said regretfully.
I always take every chance to rub in Tom's and my relationship on Aunt
Bettie, so that she won't notice our friendliness.

"I'd put John Moore at the head of the table if I were you, Molly
Carter, because he's about the only man you've invited that has got
any sense left since you and that Clinton girl took to going about
Hillsboro. He's a host of steadiness in himself, and the way he ignores
all you women, who would run after him if he would let you, shows what
he is. He has my full confidence," and as she delivered herself of this
judgment of Dr. John, Mrs. Johnson drove in all the corks tight and
began to pound spice.

"He's not out of the widower-woods yet, Caroline," said Aunt Bettie with
her most speculative smile. "I have about decided on him for Ruth since
the judge has taken to following Molly about as bad as Billy Moore does.
But don't any of you say a word, for John's very timid, and I don't
believe, in spite of all these years, he's had a single notion yet. He
doesn't see a woman as anything but a patient at the end of a spoon, and
mighty kind and gentle he does the dosing of them, too. Just the other
day--dearie me, Jane, what has boiled over now?" And in the excitement
that ensued I escaped to the garden.