She came along with the fluttering assurance of some tall ship. The next morning came a compact letter from her father. “I mean to go to that dance! I meant to reason with you, but you won’t reason. 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. Somewhere she had read that it was the proper thing to do and that men liked to be alone with their tobacco. It did not shock her; it amazed her, interested her beyond measure.
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