“The things one is crazy for are the only necessities,” protested Archibald.
She beamed upon him.
“There’s Irish in you, somewhere.” Her eyes welcomed him as one of her blood. “Now most of these New England folk have never even suspected that great truth. They’ve an idea that being crazy for a thing damns it. They’ll look upon a pink parasol for Peggy as a folly. Some of them will look upon it as a sin—but how Peg will adore it! I’d certainly cut down on something useful and uninteresting and buy her a pink parasol. Not an expensive one, you know. That would be silly, because it wouldn’t make her any happier than a cheap one and happiness is the measure of excuse for folly, isn’t it?”
“I wonder,” said Archibald.
She was blithely sure of it, waved doubts away with a careless hand.
“Real happiness, of course. Not the Sodom’s apple kind. The moment the apples begin to taste Sodomy, one must quit being foolish for the price beyond that is too high for defective apples; but as long as folly really makes us happy we’re wise fools. I’ve bought my pink parasols in all kinds of markets and never grudged the underwear and stockings they cost me.”
“You couldn’t drive over to Pittsfield with us,” suggested the man, tentatively.
She shook her head.
“It’s Peggy’s day. I’d spoil it for her. She’s going off alone with a fairy prince and with Aladdin’s lamp tucked under the buggy seat and she’d much better choose foolishly for herself than have some one choose wisely for her—not that I’d be wise. I’m all for pink parasols myself.”
She looked it. Archibald admitted that to himself as he studied the laughing face over which the candle light flickered softly.