In December of the following year Frances came into her mother’s room one afternoon, drawing on her gloves.
“Your new gown is very pretty,” her mother said. “Where are you calling?”
“I have bridge at the Warrens’ at four,” she answered. “But I thought I might have time before that to drop in at Don’s. He has telephoned me half a dozen times to call and see his baby, and I suppose he’ll keep on until I go.”
“You really ought to go.”
Frances became petulant. “Oh, I know it, but––after all, a baby isn’t interesting.”
“They say it’s a pretty baby. It’s a boy, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you come along with me?”
“I’m not dressed, dear, but please to extend my congratulations.”
“Yes, mother.”