“Love will come. No woman can remain insensible to the devotion of a loving husband. Fenn Whiting—”
“I won’t marry Fenn Whiting! I hate him!”
“I hate him, too!” Elsie was white with angry excitement. “I hate everybody but Kim!”
“Oh, well, if you’re going to act like that!” Gerty gave up the argument.
“Your sister is right, Elsie, dear,” she said; “and I’m sure you must know your own mother would be the last person in the world to advise you to do anything wrong or anything that might endanger your happiness. But a woman’s happiest life is the married life. You will eventually believe this; you will some day marry, and if Kimball never returns, it will be some other man. Why not realize this, and marry now, thus securing the great wealth that is rightfully your own but can be attained only by your marriage. Don’t harp on love,—as Gerty says, it will come with your married life. It will unfold like a beautiful flower as the time goes on,—as you live with and in the companionship of a good kind man—”
“Mother, do stop!” Elsie cried, in desperation. “If you want me to sacrifice myself for that detestable money, say so! But don’t get off all that foolish argument about love coming after marriage and all that! In fact you stand a better chance of persuading me, if you say frankly it’s for your sake and Gerty’s, than if you talk rubbish about me.”
“I thought you’d see your duty,” Gerty cried, clutching at the straw Elsie had tacitly held out. “Do it for us, then, Elsie! Marry whomever you will, goodness knows you’ve enough to choose from, but do it before the thirtieth of June! Will you,—_will_ you, Elsie?”
She hung on her sister’s words, she listened for Elsie’s decision.
“You’ve had time enough to think. If you’re to be married before the thirtieth, it’s time we began preparations.”
“Preparations? They’re all made. I have my trousseau,—”
“Yes, of course. The principal preparation is to decide on the right man.”
“There’s only one right man,” and Elsie’s eyes were piteous.
“Yes, yes,” said Gerty, hurriedly, “I mean the nicest man except Kimball. Now, let’s think him over. You don’t really hate Fenn, do you?”
“No, I don’t hate him,—he’s a good friend, and all that. But, oh, Gert, I couldn’t live with him! He has no,—no imagination.”