"I suppose so," agreed Wilbur.
He felt shamed, apologetic for his course. Still he would have some plain fighting, Wall Street or no Wall Street.
He wrested a chattering Winona from Mrs. Henrietta Plunkett at the door of the ladies' cloakroom. Mrs. Plunkett was Newbern's ablest exponent of the cause of woman, and she had been disquieted this night at observing signs of an unaccustomed frivolity in one of her hitherto stanchest disciples.
"I can't think what has come over you!" she had complained to Winona. "You seem like a different girl!"
"I am a different girl!" boasted Winona.
"You do look different—your gown is wonderfully becoming, and what lovely slippers!" Mrs. Plunkett inspected the aged debutante with kindly eyes. "But remember, my dear, we mustn't let frivolities like this divert our attention from the cause. A bit more of the good fight and we shall have come into our own."
"All this wonderful mad evening I have forgotten the cause," confessed Winona.
"Mercy!" said Mrs. Plunkett. "Forgotten the cause? One hardly does that, does one, without a reason?"
"I have reasons enough," said Winona, thinking of the new dancing slippers and the frock.
"Surely, my dear, you who are so free and independent are not thinking of marriage?"