"Surely you can wait that long—"
"I'll do my best," she interrupted almost impatiently. "If it can't be, it can't. So don't let's talk any more about it."
"I'd give a good deal to be able to arrange things the way you wish," he grumbled. "But I don't see...."
She was silent. He paced the worn path on the carpet for a few moments, then turned aside to his desk and stood idly examining a little collection of correspondence which had been delivered in his absence. One or two letters he opened, skimmed through without paying much attention to their contents, and tossed aside. A third brought from him an exclamation: "Hello!"
"What is it?" Joan enquired indifferently.
"What do you say to running down to Tanglewood over Sunday?"
"Tanglewood?"
"My Aunt Helena's home—down at Port Madison, Long Island, you know. She has just written, asking us. It would be rather fun. Would you like to go?"
A blunt negative was barely suppressed. Curiosity made Joan hesitate, and temporarily to forego further petulance.
"I've got nothing to wear," she doubted uncertainly.