"Love to You Both," it read. "Will be with You Wednesday at the Latest," and it was addressed to me, and signed, "Mother." Wednesday was two days off. I spent the intervening time in the outrageous shops, Bill stalking uneasily behind me, deferred to by the lithe, wonderfully coiffured, purring Goddesses who paraded mannequin after pretty mannequin before my startled eyes. I think, however, that Bill was a little more embarrassed than I.
"How they live," he said to me, seriously, on one occasion, "I don't see. I should think they'd spend most of their time in a pneumonia ward!"
We drove in the Park one afternoon. It was gay with Spring flowers and pretty girls. We had a hansom, because I had read about them in books. Coming back, through the falling dusk, with the lights of the city twinkling out, yellow and beckoning, and the great, massive bulk of the Plaza, illuminated like a birthday cake, just ahead, I suddenly conceived an affection for New York. But I didn't want to live there.
"Next time we come," said Bill, "in the Fall, perhaps, I want to take you to the theatres and to the gayest restaurants, and concerts. Why, you funny child, your eyes are as big as saucers!"
Our lean horse stumbled just then, and the hansom gave a seasick lurch. I felt as people mounting camels must feel. When the horse and I had somewhat recovered, I answered,
"I'd love it! And you'll teach me to dance—sometime?—May I?"
"Well," said Bill gravely, "I'm not much of a dancer—too big and all that. I always step on the dear things' feet. But you may, I think, and we'll take lessons together, if you like—"
"I'd adore it!" I said.
My husband drew me close—,
"You baby," he said. "Sometimes I think I have been selfish, tying you down to a cross old husband before you've had your good times—"