pseudo-classic house, Georgian, rather small, a white facade against
the grass. A Jacobean dining-room, dark certainly, the French
windows open on dipping candle flames. You'd wear white, with your
hair low and the midnight bang as it is now."

"That would be awfully nice," Linda replied vaguely. She sighed.

"But a very light drawing-room!" he cried. "White panels and arches
and Canton-blue rugs--the brothers Adam. A fluted mantel, McIntires,
and a brass hod. Curiously enough, I always see you in the evening
... at the piano. I'm not so bored, now." Little flames of red
burned in either thin cheek. "What nonsense!" Suddenly he was tired.
"This is a practical and earnest world," his voice grew thin and
hurt her. "Yet beauty is relentless. You'll have your garden, but I
shouldn't be surprised at difficulties first."

"It won't be so hard to get," she declared confidently. "I mean to
choose the right man. Mother says that's the answer. Women, she
says, won't use their senses."

"Ah."

Linda began to think this was a most unpleasant monosyllable.

"So that's the lay! Has she succeeded?"

"She has a splendid time. She's out tonight with Mr. Jasper in a
rolling chair, and he has loads and loads of money. It makes all the
other women cross."