Meanwhile I thought I would feel more comfortable if Lucille were better dressed. You know how men feel on this subject. Most of them would rather be seen in company with the lowest woman in New York if she wore a Paris gown, than with a woman in rags, even if she were as pure as a saint. A man is always afraid of being chaffed for being with a badly dressed woman.
For the world, looking on, judges only by the dress.
I spoke to Lucille. I found she was as sensitive about her cheap garments as I was, so I told her if she would buy an entire outfit suitable for our wanderings I would pay for it. I made suggestions, and the garments she bought were as lady-like and appropriate as if it had been an every-day affair with her.
Then came the question, Where to send the clothes?
She could not send them home, for her mother and sister, though poor, had Puritan ideas concerning morals and propriety.
There is a way out of every difficulty.
I had her send all her new articles to my bachelor apartment. Then I gave her a key, so she could enter my rooms at any time to change her cheap clothing for her new and vice versa.
So I got her to my rooms.
I don’t deny that it was my intention at first to finally take her there, but I wanted to preserve the sentiment of the affair as long as possible. She was very perfect to the sight, very lovable, and I was eager for our evenings—anxious to drip out as slowly as possible the intoxication of the affair, still breathlessly eager to drain the cup.
There is no need of going into detail.