For once Vivian was glad to go.
"That's a good scheme of Jane Bellair's, don't you think so?" asked the old lady as they shut the gate behind them.
"I—why yes—I don't see why not."
Vivian was still dizzy with the blow to her heart's idol. All the soft, still dream-world she had so labored to keep pure and beautiful seemed to shake and waver swimmingly. She could not return to it. The flat white face of her home loomed before her, square, hard, hideously unsympathetic—
"Grandma," said she, stopping that lady suddenly and laying a pleading hand on her arm, "Grandma, I believe I'll go."
Mrs. Pettigrew nodded decisively.
"I thought you would," she said.
"Do you blame me, Grandma?"
"Not a mite, child. Not a mite. But I'd sleep on it, if I were you."