America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. ‘You won’t get a thing out of her. There will be long stretches of idleness, heat, and enervation; and always the odour of drying coconut. I will be as silent as the grave. Some day I'm going to paint her; but that will be when I've retired. Only one thing emerged with any reasonable clarity in her mind at once, and that was that unless she was saved from drowning by an unmarried man, in which case the ceremony is unavoidable, or totally destitute of under-clothing, and so driven to get a trousseau, in which hardship a trousseau would certainly be “ripping,” marriage was an experience to be strenuously evaded.
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