"And just as her happy yelping," went on Cordelia satirically, "was the root of our speech, I suppose that hunk of half-cooked flesh was the root of this terrine de foie gras."
She sniffed at her delicacy appreciatively.
"How much nicer the modern way is," she added, dreamily, "marriage by capture transformed into marriage by chef."
"But has it changed so much, after all?" asked Repellier, looking about at the half-filled hampers.
Cordelia thought it over before her mirror that evening as she dressed, and she rediscovered two truths. One was that it really hadn't changed so much, and the other was that Mr. Repellier often said things with a sort of double meaning, which, she knew, was always going to fill her with a hazy distrust of him.
Her toilet was an exceptionally elaborate one, and it was almost seven before she tapped lightly on Mrs. Spaulding's door.
Dismay crept through her as she entered; she immediately recognized all the familiar symptoms.
"I've got one of my heads again, my dear. I'm sorry, but I can't go."
Cordelia looked at her with compressed lips.
"You'll have to run along by yourself, my dear. It'll be all right, and I'll send Thomas with the brougham at nine."