She was smiling as she said it, but her tone was not to be denied.
“If that is the alternative,” Rachel answered, returning the smile with an affectionate look of a sort which neither Louis Lockwood nor Stevens Cathcart nor Dr. Roger Barnes had ever seen on her face—though they had dreamed of it—“of course I shall stay. But I’ll tell you frankly I would rather not.”
“Why not, Rachel?”
“I think you know why not, Mrs. Robeson,” Rachel answered.
“Yes, I know why not,” admitted Juliet. “Girls are queer things, Ray. They defeat their own ends all the time—lots of them. Suzanne and Marie are dear girls, with ever so many nice things about them, but they don’t—they don’t know enough not to pursue, chase, run down, the object of their desires. And, of course, the object, being run down panting, into a corner, dodges, evades, gets out and runs away. Rachel, dear, what are you going to wear to-night?”
“My best frock,” said Rachel, smiling.
“Which is——”
“White.”
“Cut out at the neck?”
“A little.”