Her voice raised the discussion to celestial heights.
“Never say die!” cried Miss Regan, enthusiastically. “Every dictionary should be without it.”
“Just so,” said M. Dolkovitch, gravely. “Our European customs, Mr. Strang, with regard to death are all in direct contradiction to our creed. The spirit rises into more blessed states, and instead of rejoicing in festive attire, we mourn for it, we put on black, and our looks are black, and our hearses are black, and the horses they are of black also.”
“I think it’s very proper,” said Miss Regan, decisively. “I love black funerals. Colored funerals would make me feel sad.” She rose. “We are going soon, Nor, aren’t we? You look tired.”
“Yes, we are going at once,” Mrs. Wyndwood breathed.
The Russian gave the painter his card, and hoped he would come and hear more of the new gospel. Next Sunday afternoon spiritual people came from four to seven.
Mr. Strang made a movement to accompany the ladies, but Mrs. Wyndwood begged him not to trouble—M. Dolkovitch would see them to the carriage.
“Good-bye, then,” she said with an enchanting smile. “It was so good of you to talk to us.”
Words failed him in reply. Fortunately, a little white-haired gentleman bowed to her at that moment and distracted her attention.
“That was General Dale, Olive,” she said. “What a fine, soldierly walk!”