“Thank goodness, Lettie, you at least will always dress neatly.”
“I should think so,” replied Lettie. “I honestly confess that I am quite fond of clothes, and I like to look smart.”
“Well, dear, it is a comfort that I shall have you to stay with me.”
“But, Aunt Helen, I am ever so sorry. I think you ought to let me go too.”
“You, Lettie? You go to St. Wode’s College? What do you mean?”
“I think I ought to go, if for no other reason than to watch those two poor dear girls through this eccentric
phase of their existence. Think of them, Aunt Helen, alone with Belle Acheson!”
“There is something in what you say,” said Mrs. Chetwynd; “and as Mrs. Acheson intends to go on the Continent in the winter, and she wishes me to—oh, of course I pooh-poohed the idea; but I really think I shall do it now. I shall go about from one fashionable place to another and amuse myself, and try to forget that I have children. Oh, it is a cruel, a crushing disappointment.”
“You will live through it,” said Lettie. She bent and kissed Mrs. Chetwynd on her cheek.
“After all,” she continued, “there is no good in forcing Marjorie and Eileen into grooves which were never meant for them. You will write to Miss Lauderdale, will you not, to-night?”