To-night she could have hugged both the old maids. Hetty, looking out of the window—she always smoked her after-breakfast cigarette at the window for the benefit of the less advanced section of Morningside Park society—and trying not to raise objections, saw Miss Stanley going down toward the shops. Help—should she need it—from the natives was out of the question. Then she sat down—uninvited— and looked from one to the other curiously. What was it she had expected? Surely her moods were getting a little out of hand. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. ” She found it difficult to begin thinking, and indeed she was anything but clear what it was she had to think about.
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