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Woman's love of silk is not set by fashion; it is bred in the bone; and somewhere, somehow, a woman will have her bit of silk. I’ve got a streak of male. Old thoughts, old feelings, old faces, and old scenes have returned to me, and I have fancied myself happy,—as happy as I am now. There is Lady Arlingford’s reception to-night, ten till twelve, and the Hatton House ball, marked with a cross, sir, important. Brendon suggests supper at the Carlton. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. After all, this could never be the black sheep.
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