“Lucy, that’s horrible. Thank you for walking me home the other day. She put her clothes back on, 118 lipstick smeared all over her face. She glanced towards her sister, and curiously enough found in her face some faint reflection of her own rather sombre mirth. But when she reached the pavement outside her teeth were clenched, and she carried herself unconsciously an inch or so higher. She leaned back in the cab with half-closed eyes. There were the burnt papers still in the grate. “Do YOU go across the Park?” “Not usually. And all this time perhaps you have been waiting, expecting to hear from me. O'Higgins struck a match and lit his Henry Clay, thereby drawing upon himself the mutual disapproval of the spinsters. Your father has forbidden you to go!’” “Well?” “She said, ‘I hate being horrid to you and father, but I feel it my duty to go to that ball!’” “Felt it her duty!” “‘Very well,’ I said, ‘then I wash my hands of the whole business. Woman's love of silk is not set by fashion; it is bred in the bone; and somewhere, somehow, a woman will have her bit of silk. Nigel, you have not forgotten!” “No,” he said, with a little bitter smile. I would like to talk to you about this—soon. F.
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