Grace had not changed her mind about going to Miss Reynolds’s dinner, though at times she had all but reconsidered her decision not to tell Trenton of the invitation. There was really no reason why she should not let him know of his wife’s impending visit to Indianapolis; what really stayed her hand when she considered mentioning the matter in one of her letters was a fear that he might advise her against going. Her curiosity as to Ward Trenton’s wife was acute and outweighed any fear of his possible displeasure when he learned—and of course Grace meant to tell him—that she had deliberately put herself in Mrs. Trenton’s way.
II
On Saturday evening the delivery of a gown she had picked out of Shipley’s stock to wear to the dinner made it necessary to explain why she had purchased it. It was the simplest of dinner gowns which she drew from the box and held up for her mother’s and Ethel’s inspection.
“What earthly use can you have for that, Grace?” Ethel demanded.
Grace laid it across her mother’s knees and Mrs. Durland took a fold in her fingers to appraise the material.
“It’s certainly pretty. This is one of the new shades, isn’t it, Grace? It isn’t blue exactly——”
“They call it hydrangea blue, mother. Please hurry and say I’ll look scrumptious in it!”
“I don’t think I’d have chosen just that,” remarked Ethel putting down a handkerchief she was embroidering, in flourishing script with the initials O. H., to eye the garment critically. “If I were in your place and could afford to spend what that must have cost I think I’d have got something in one of the more definite shades. You can’t really say whether that’s blue or pink.”
“That’s the artistic part of it, old dear,” replied Grace amiably. “It’s out of the new spring stock and considered very smart. Wake up, daddy! Tell me you don’t think I’m stung!”
“I guess my views about dresses wouldn’t help you much, Grace,” Durland remarked, glancing at the gown absently and returning to his interminable calculations.