"Yes, one hundred and fifty!" said Dorothy, laughing. "Take me to Paris, and to the opera or theatre every night, and it will go down."
"Oh, you don't mean that," said the aunt, assuringly.
"Yes, but I do," Dorothy answered. And then, with her cheek still resting on the cushion, she looked up at her mother. "You will take me, mamma, won't you? If I tell you that I must?"
"Yes," replies Mrs. North, coldly.
They went to Paris. And then, for four weeks, almost every night at the back of a box at the opera or at one of the theatres were three ladies in mourning attire, the youngest of the three in widow's weeds. Mrs. Tracy was so perturbed during these weeks that her face was constantly red.
"Why are you so worried?" Mrs. North inquired. "I manage it perfectly; people don't in the least know."
"Do I care for 'people'? It's—it's—" But she would not say "It's Dorothy." "It's ourselves," she finally ended.
"Always sentimental," said Laura.
Midway in the first week of April, Dorothy suddenly changed again. "I can't stay here a moment longer!" she said.
"Perhaps you would like to take a trip round the world?" suggested Mrs. North, with a touch of sarcasm.