"It's the crape of the heart that counts," he repeated.
"All right," she said, like a child. "I'll wear my heavier one." And she walked half fearfully into the little room adjoining.
When she returned her face was freshly powdered and the pink rims about her eyes fainter. Her tan jacket was buttoned snugly about her. She stood for a moment under the bracket of light and smiled gratefully at him.
"I'm ready."
Mr. Lux stepped toward her and hooked his arm, like a cotillion leader asking a débutante into the dinner-hall; then stopped, took another step, and paused again. A quick wave of red swept over his face.
"Why!" he began; "why! Well!"
She looked down at her skirt with a woman's quick consciousness of self.
"I told you," she said, with her words falling one over the other; "I told you it wasn't mournin'! I—I—"
She followed his gaze to her coat-lapel and to the magenta bow. A hot pink flowed under her skin.
"Oh!" she cried. "Ain't I the limit? That—that bow was on, and I forgot—me wearin' a red bow on poor Angie's funeral day! Me—oh—"