awakened her in the morning until her maid undressed her at night. But,
although Adelaide was far too young, too inexperienced to know that
judgment must always be formed from actions, never from words, she was
not, in this instance, deceived. "It takes more courage than most of us
have," said she, "to do what we'd like instead of what vanity suggests."

Mrs. Whitney did not understand this beyond getting from it a vague sense
that she had somehow been thrust at. "You must be careful of that skin of
yours, Adele," she thrust back. "I've been looking at it. You can't have
been home long, yet the exposure to the sun is beginning to show. You
have one of those difficult, thin skins, and one's skin is more than half
one's beauty. You ought never to go out without a veil. The last thing
Ross said to me was, 'Do tell Adelaide to keep her color down.' You know
he admires the patrician style."

Adelaide could not conceal the effect of the shot. Her skin was a great
trial to her, it burned so easily; and she hated wrapping herself in
under broad brims and thick veils when the feeling of bareheadedness was
so delightful. "At any rate," said she sweetly, "it's easier to keep
color down than to keep it up."

Mrs. Whitney pretended not to hear. She was now at the window which gave
on the garden by way of a small balcony. "There's your father!" she
exclaimed; "let's go to him."

There, indeed, was Hiram, pacing the walk along the end of the garden
with a ponderousness in the movements of his big form that bespoke age
and effort. It irritated Mrs. Whitney to look at him, as it had irritated
her to look at Ellen; very painful were the reminders of the ravages of
time from these people of about her own age, these whom she as a child