Simon Jefferson cried out, "Is that my sister Lucy? Blessed if I thought she had so much spirit!"
"Do you call that spirit?" returned Gregory, with displeasure.
"Well!" snorted Simon, "what do you call it, then?"
"Perhaps," responded Gregory, with marked disapprobation, "perhaps it was spirit."
Grace, still attired for the street, looked down upon Mrs. Gregory as if turned to stone. Her beautiful face expressed something like horror at the other's irreverence.
Fran shook back her hair, and watched with gleaming eyes from behind the slats, not unlike a small wild creature peering from its cage.
"Oh," cried Fran, "Miss Noir feels so bad!"
Grace swept from the hall, her rounded figure instinct with the sufferings of a martyr.
Fran murmured, "That killed her!"
"And you!" cried Gregory, turning suddenly in blind anger upon the other—"you don't care whose heart you break."