“That’s the trouble. I want to sing for thousands of strangers; I want to be famous, Dan, and yet, I want you for my pal. Don’t you see that it doesn’t go together as it should? For me to stay here as your wife, and for me to travel all over the world and be on the stage—and all that would go with it. I wouldn’t be your wife unless I was sure to be the right wife. Dear old boy, you shrug your shoulders every time I try to explain it. But I’m different from Lorraine and the other girls. I’m selfish and generous all in one, quick tempered and patient by turns. I hate to fuss about details. Domesticity drives me mad, poor Granny Pilrig can tell you! I’d sit up half the night to learn a song or read a book, and then I’d want to be hideously lazy the next morning. Sometimes I feel as if I were floating in the air, flying with absolutely divine ease and bliss just because of something deep inside myself—I haven’t the faintest idea what it is. I can sing on hilltops and laugh in the grayest of drizzles. Everything can be in glorious purples and golden colors. And when the sun is actually bright and every one is congratulating every one on the weather, I find myself old, tired, black within. I want to cry, scream, go away from every one and neither speak nor move. That’s what they call temperament, I understand, and you, Dan boy,” Thurley’s lovable mouth curved into smiles, “you could never say that is a good basis for a happy marriage—particularly to a gentleman with a ‘Swedish appetite’ and one who likes to be amused when he comes home tired out from a bargain sale of kitchen oilcloth!” “Well, what is the basis for a happy marriage? Mrs. Hawkins says ‘young folks should set down and talk about what they each like to eat before the engagement is announced!’ I guess we can pass that up.” “Did you know what Mrs. Hawkins said about me, as being a good wife for you? It’s funny! She told Granny and Granny told me. She said, ‘I bet Thurley would dust the divil out of her cut glass and rustle into her georgette crêpes to get to a singing bee; but cook that boy a square meal, darn a sock, stand a bit of the Birge temper—never!’” “She’s just a meddlesome old woman,” Dan began angrily. “She’s truthful and she likes us both. Don’t let’s rush ahead and be married until we are sure, and until you try once more to see if you don’t love Lorraine; it seems so cruel when she cares so hard.”