"I am being well paid for my disobedience," she whimpered. "Now I can't
go out for a week; and it's April; and when I do go out I'll be so
anxious all the while, peeping furtively at every man who passes and
wondering whether his name might be George.... And it is going to be
horridly awkward, too.... Fancy their bringing up some harmless dancing
man named George to present to me next winter, and I, terrified, picking
up my debutante skirts and running.... I'll actually be obliged to flee
from every man until I know his name isn't George. Oh, dear! Oh, dear!
What an awful outlook for this summer when we open the house at Oyster
Bay! What a terrible vista for next winter!"
She naively dabbed a tear from her long lashes with the back of her
gauntlet.
Her maid came, announcing luncheon, but she would have none of it, nor
any other offered office, including a bath and a house gown.
"You go away somewhere, Bowles," she said, "and please, don't come near
me, and don't let anybody come anywhere in my distant vicinity, because I
am v-very unhappy, Bowles, and deserve to be--and I--I desire to be alone
with c-conscience."
"But, Miss Sybilla----"
"No, no, no! I don't even wish to hear your voice--or anybody's. I don't
wish to hear a single human sound of any description. I--_what_ is that
scraping noise in the library?"
"A man, Miss Sybilla----"
"A _man!_ W-what's his name?"
"I don't know, miss.
Pages:
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140