“I expect it does,” assented Dolly, bending back her swan’s-neck to catch a glimpse of her supple young waist in the spotty mirror. “It fits rather badly; any one can see it is homemade, but that can’t be helped. I am going to wear it to church on Christmas Day.”
“Father’ll be awfully angry if you go to church.”
“Of course, but that doesn’t matter. No one except small shopkeepers and mill-girls goes to chapel now. Besides, the minister drops his h’s and mixes his metaphors and talks the silliest nonsense: I wouldn’t listen to him even if it were the fashion. Shall you come with me?”
“I guess I’d better. Have you seen that Farquhar chap again?”
“I have,” Dolly answered, composedly.
“You’ll get yourself into a mess if you don’t look out.”
“Oh no. He may get into a mess, but I shall not.”
“Then I don’t think you are playing fair.”
“Yes, I am. He knows why I spoke to him.”
“Why did you?”