Dora also showed signs of the change so rapidly working on her. She was sullen and passionate by turns; she complained bitterly to Ethel that her youth and beauty had been wasted; that she was only nineteen, and her life was over. She wanted to go to Paris, to get away from New York anywhere and anyhow. She began to dislike even the presence of Basil. His stately beauty offended her, his low, calm voice was the very keynote of irritation.
One morning near Christmas he came to her with a smiling, radiant face. “Dora,” he said, “Dora, my love, I have something so interesting to tell you. Mrs. Colby and Mrs. Schaffler and some other ladies have a beautiful idea. They wish to give all the children of the church under eight years old the grandest Christmas tree imaginable—really rich presents and they thought you might like to have it here.”
“What do you say, Basil!”
“You were always so fond of children. You——”
“I never could endure them.”
“We all thought you might enjoy it. Indeed, I was so sure that I promised for you. It will be such a pleasure to me also, dear.”
“I will have no such childish nonsense in my house.”
“I promised it, Dora.”
“You had no right to do so. This is my house. My father bought it and gave me it, and it is my own. I——”
“It seems, then, that I intrude in your house. Is it so? Speak, Dora.”