“You can’t do it all,” said Aunt Cordelia positively. “That Society keeps you till dark.”
“She stood, fingering the window curtain, irresolute.”
Emmy Lou knew when Aunt Cordelia’s tones were final. She had feared this. She stood—fingering the window-curtain—irresolute. In her heart she felt her literary qualifications were not being appreciated in Platonian circles anyway. A dancing club—it sounded alluring. The window was near the bureau with its mirror—she stole a look. She was—yes—she knew now she was pretty.
Late that afternoon Miss MacLauren dropped a note in the post. It was a note tendering her resignation to the Platonian Society.
THE END