his Golden Text. They spent their collection money for drug-store candy and put a frog in my coat pocket. Besides," she squared her shoulders to launch her bomb, "I am not going to be married yet—I am not sure that I'm going to be married at all."
"What do you mean, Nan?"
"Just what I say," defiantly. "I'm going to have my fling first."
Now that it was out, Nan Galbraith looked from one to the other of the family circle with complacency. Its members were fully dressed for church and the carriage had been waiting some time, but they dropped into various chairs at Nan's announcement, more or less aghast.
Nan pursed her lips and thrust out her chin as she adjusted her veil to a degree more of comfort, and waited for the storm to break.
It did not come immediately, so she repeated, "I mean it. I'm going to have my fling."
Nan's younger brother, a "prep" student, with all the candor characteristic of that self-assertive age of wisdom was the first to recover.
