Katherine frowned a little, and demurred.
“Are you going to be fearfully conventional, Dorothy?”
“We must pay some attention to the conventions, don’t you think?”
“I had hoped not. I yearn to be a bachelor girl, and own a latch-key.”
“We shall each possess a latch-key when we settle down in New York. Our flat will be our castle, and, although our latch-key will let us in, our Yale lock will keep other people out. A noted summer resort calls for different treatment, because there we lead a semi-public life. Besides, I am selfish enough to wish my coming-out to be under the auspices of so well-known a man as Captain Kempt.”
“All right, I’ll see what they say about it. You don’t want Sabina, I take it?”
“Yes, if she will consent to come.”
“I doubt if she will, but I’ll see. Besides, now that I come to think about it, it’s only fair I should allow my doting parents to know that I am about to desert them.”
With that Katherine quitted the room, and went down the stairs hippety-hop.
Dorothy drew the letter from its place of concealment, and read it for the third time, although one not interested might have termed it a most commonplace document. It began: