"I will ask my cousin, Mr. Emory, to take you to all the galleries, and you must go to the White House and shake hands with the President."
"Oh, I should like to!" she exclaimed. "I should like to! I should indeed feel proud." She flushed suddenly and turned away her head. Betty called her attention hastily to a shop window: they had turned into F Street. She was determined that the obnoxious subject should never be mentioned between them if she could help it.
"I'll take you to New York and show you the shops there," she continued. "New York was invented that woman might appreciate her superiority over man."
"I'd love a yellow satin dress trimmed with red and blue beads," said
Harriet, thoughtfully.
Betty shuddered. For the moment F Street seemed flaunting with old
Aunty Dinah's bandannas. She replied hurriedly,—
"You will have all sorts of new ideas by the time you go out of mourning. I suppose you will wear black for a year."
"That makes me think. While I'm in black I can't see your fine friends.
I'd like to study. Could I afford a teacher?"
"You can have a dozen. I've told you that I intend to turn over to you the money father left me. Mr. Emory will attend to it. You will have about five hundred dollars a month to do what you like with."
The girl gasped, then shook her head. "I can't realize that sum," she said. "But I know it's riches, and I wish—I wish he were alive."
"If he were you would not have it, for I should not know of you. You will enjoy having a French teacher and a Professor of Belles Lettres. Have you any talent for music?"