“This is quite a family party,” said Helen; “let us draw our chairs close to the fire and warm ourselves with brotherly affection; it is so beastly cold out. But by this great log fire one thinks himself in the hall of an old English castle; and the streets of New York are not. I feel almost romantic.”
“Let us tell stories,” suggested Cryder.
“No,” replied Helen, promptly, “I don’t want to listen to long stories. You would tell your own, and I can’t understand dialect. Besides, I want to talk about myself—I beg that prerogative of your sex. As this is a family party, I am going to tell my woes and ask advice. I want to get married! Shall I, or shall I not?”
“Who is the man?” asked Cryder. “How can we advise until we know whether he is worthy to buy your bonnets?”
“I have not decided. The man is not much of a point. I simply want to be married that I may be free,” and she heaved a sigh.
“Free of what?” asked Hermia, sarcastically. “Of freedom?”
“Oh, this is not freedom, my dear. A girl always has to be chaperoned. A married woman chaperones. Oh, the difference!”
“But where do you propose to keep the future Mr. Helen Simms?” asked Cryder, laughing.
“At his club, or in a rose-colored boudoir. Mine will be blue.”
“Helen Simms! you are the most immoral young woman I ever—ever——.” The wrathful voice broke down, and all turned to Miss Starbruck with amused sympathy.