"My dear, I must return to New York!"
"Oh no! Grace, darling, I've accepted seventeen—"
"I must, Ruth. I simply must!"
"But Monty is coming at one to take us to his father's—"
Grace felt like saying that Monty could take himself to Hades or to Atlantic City. But she merely shook her head. She dared not trust herself to speak. Ruth appealed to her mother. But Mrs. Fiddle shrugged her shoulders and said: "No use! New York!" She herself was a Van Duzen.
And so Grace Goodchild returned home, five days before she was expected.
"I couldn't stand it, mother," she explained, almost tearfully.
"Very well," said Mrs. Goodchild.
What else can a mother say in New York? And isn't it right to stand by your own flesh and blood?
Grace hesitated, full of perplexities and unformulated doubts and an exasperating sense of indecision. She felt like opening the book of her soul to other eyes. To hear advice or, at least, opinions.