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Updated: June 22, 2025
Here, where her motives could not be misunderstood, where her presence indeed was to be construed as adding distinction and dignity to the festivities, Martie could be herself. She laughed, she flirted with the common yet admiring boys, she paid charming attention to the old women. A rambling musical programme was presently set in motion; Martie's voice led all the voices.
"Tell me," she said suddenly, "I don't want to say the awkward thing to him has he got his divorce?" He looked at her, amazed. "Don't you correspond?" "Twice a year, perhaps." Dean Silver flung away his cigarette, and sunk his hands in his pockets. "Certainly he's divorced," he said briefly. Martie's heart thumped. The flowers in her hands, she stood staring away from him, unseeing.
And there were other things to make Martie's heart dance as she set the dinner table. But she wondered if she should have asked him in. Martie stopped short, salt-cellars in her hand. How could she with Pa's arrival possible at any moment. Besides she had asked him, as they lingered laughing at the gate. That was all right it was late, anyway. He had gaily refused, and she had not pressed him.
"To begin say the last Friday in October!" the boy said. "You look up the date, and we'll get together on the lists!" Get together on the lists! Martie's heart closed over the phrase with a sort of spasm of pleasure. She and Rodney conferring arranging! The bliss the dignity of it! She would have considered anything, promised anything.
A more experienced woman, with all of Martie's love and longing surging in her heart, would have vouchsafed him just that casual touch of hand on hand, that slight, apparently involuntary swerve of shoulder against shoulder that would have brought the boy's arms about her, his lips to hers.
The tears dried on Martie's cheeks; Mrs. Hawkes and Dr. Ben were even laughing as they consulted and worked together. Martie took the baby down to the kitchen for her bath, and it seemed strange to her that the dried peaches Sally had set on the stove that morning were still placidly simmering in their saucepan.
Miss Fanny, in the Library, began to entertain serious hopes that the girl would take the Cutter system to heart, and make a clever understudy at the old desk. Sally, watching, dreamed and yearned of Martie's distinction, Martie's happiness; Lydia prayed.
Rose, instantly suspicious, was presently told of it, and Martie's sisters and Rose planned an announcement luncheon for early July. Martie thought she would really be glad when the fuss and flurry was over. Long familiar with money scarcity, she wondered sometimes just what her financial arrangement with her new husband would be. Clifford was the richest man in Monroe.
Martie's colour was high from fast walking in the cold wind, her eyes shone like sapphires, and her loosened hair, under an old velvet tam-o'-shanter cap, made a gold aureole about her face. Rodney, watching her mount the little hill to the graveyard with a winter sunset before her, had called her "Brunhilde," and he had been talking of grand opera as they walked home.
It had been decided that the marriage should take place in San Francisco, Wallace sensibly suggesting that there would be less embarrassing questioning there, and also that Martie's money might be spent to better advantage in the city.
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