“That was a moment of madness,” she said. At length he proceeded toward McClintock's bungalow, drawn by the lights and the sound of music. 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. “Maybe we could swing a scholarship to Boston College for you, you know, with your violin and all. Rummage, my boy, do. She passed down the stairs and into the street.
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