When he came in to dinner that night he looked awfully depressed; he
brightened up a lot, though, when he saw me. I had on my most
becoming gown, and Dad had ordered a grand dinner, including his own
special brand of Burgundy. If Dad knew as much about architecture as
he does about wine, they'd insist on his designing all the buildings
for the next world's fair.

All through dinner Blakely wasn't quite himself--I could see it; I
think Dad saw it, too-but I knew he would tell us what was the
matter as soon as he had an opportunity. One, of the sweetest things
about Blakely is his perfect frankness. I couldn't love a man who
wasn't frank with me. That is, I suppose I could, but I should hate
to; it would break my heart. Well, after dinner, when Dad had
lighted his cigar, and Blakely his cigarette, it all came out.

"Tom!"

"Yes, my boy." (I think Dad loved to hear Blakely say Tom almost as
much as I loved to hear him say Elizabeth.)

"Tom, I've got you and Elizabeth into a deuce of an unpleasant
position. I've told you what a fine woman my mother is, and how
she'd welcome Elizabeth with open arms, and now I find I was all
wrong. My mother isn't a fine woman; she's an ancestor-worshiping,
heartless, selfish snob. I'm ashamed of her, Tom. She refuses to
meet Elizabeth."