"That's nonsense," said Lucia. "All we Severences get stout as we
grow old. You can't hope to escape."

"Grow old!" Margaret's brow lowered. Then she smiled satirically.
"Yes, I AM growing old. I don't dare think how many seasons out,
and not married, or even engaged. If we were rich, I'd be a young
girl still. As it is, I'm getting on.'"

"Don't you worry about that, Rita," said Lucia. "Don't you let
them hurry you into anything desperate. I'm sure _I_ don't want to
come out. I hate society and I don't care about men. It's much
pleasanter lounging about the house and reading. No dressing--no
fussing with clothes and people you hate."

"It isn't fair to you, Lucy," said Margaret. "I don't mind their
nagging, but I do mind standing in your way. And they'll keep you
back as long as I'm still on the market."

"But I want to be kept back." Lucia spoke almost energetically,
half lifting her form whose efflorescence had a certain charm
because it was the over-luxuriance of healthy youth. "I shan't
marry till I find the right man. I'm a fatalist. I believe there's
a man for me somewhere, and that he'll find me, though I was hid--
was hid--even here." And she gazed romantically round at the
enclosing walls of foliage.

The resolute lines, the "unfeminine" expression disappeared from
her sister's face. She laughed softly and tenderly. "What a dear
you are!" she cried.