“I don’t know,” said Lydia with the full stop of absent indifference.
“Didn’t Mrs. Hollister say?”
“Maybe she did. I didn’t notice.” The girl was tugging at her glove.
“Well, anyhow,” said her mother, “since everybody’s giving you card-parties, I should think you’d want to practice up and learn how to deal better. It’s queer,” she went on to Mrs. Sandworth, “Lydia’s so deft about so many things, that she should deal cards so badly.”
“Oh, goodness! As if there was nothing better to do than that!” cried Lydia, beginning on the other glove.
“Well, what have you to do that’s better?” asked her aunt in some astonishment. “Lydia, my dear, your collar is pinned the least bit crooked. Here, just let me—”
Lydia had stopped short, her glove dangling from her wrist. “Why, what a horrible thing to say!” She brought this out with a tragic emphasis, immensely disconcerting to her two elders.
“Horrible!” protested Mrs. Sandworth.
“Yes, horrible,” insisted the girl. She had turned very pale. “The very way you say it and don’t think anything about it, makes it horrible.”
Mrs. Sandworth began to doubt her own senses. “Why, what did I say?” she appealed to Mrs. Emery in bewildered interrogation, but before the latter could answer Lydia broke out: “If I really believed that, why, I’d—I’d—” She hesitated, obviously between tragic consequences, and then, to the great dismay of her companions, began to cry, still standing in the middle of the floor, her glove dangling from her slim, white wrist.