"
"Do you care so much about the Symphonies, then? I thought you were the
one girl in Boston who doesn't pretend to care for music."
"Oh, but we have lovely seats this year, and the nicest people all
about us, you know. Thayer Kent and his mother are directly behind us."
"Where he can lean forward and talk to you," interrupted Rangely,
jealously.
"Yes," she said, nodding with a gleam of mischievous laughter in her
dark eyes. "And I do have a nice time at the Symphonies. Besides, I
don't in the least object to the music, you know."
Fred fixed his gaze on a large old-fashioned oil painting on the
opposite wall, a copy from some of the innumerable pastorals which have
been made in imitation of Nicholas Poussin. It was of no particular
value, but it was surrounded by a beautiful carved Venetian frame, and
was one of those things which confer an air of distinction upon a
Boston parlor, because they are plainly the art purchases of a bygone
generation.
"But you have, of course, had no end of girls running in to see you,"
he observed.
"Yes; but, then, that didn't make up for the Throgmorton ball. You ask
what else there was to lose; I should think that was enough. Why, Janet
Graham says she never had such a lovely time in her life."
"Is Miss Graham engaged to Fred Gore?" Rangely asked.
Ethel's gesture of dissent showed how little she would have approved of
such a consummation.
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