Presently this conscience was satisfied, for the lid of the piano went down with a thud. There was a quick step, the whisk of white skirts in the darkened hall, the opening and closing of a door, followed by what we must infer was a sort of primping silence.
Then a voice, firm and maternal, came through the front bedroom window on that side of the house: “Helen, why are you wearing your organdie?”
“I don’t know, mother,” a young voice answered.
I doubt if she did know. Some of the shrewdest acts of a maiden are unintelligible to her.
“Well, it is silly, putting on your nice things to go to choir practice.”
It was silly, but one frequently makes the silliest preparations for happiness. This is the wisdom of youth. Age cannot beat it.
After a pause, the same elder voice, made smoother—“Have you seen George?”
“Not in two years. Why?”
“He has been at home a week, hasn’t he?”
“I don’t know when he came.”