"You'd get tired of them if you lived there."
"I should never get tired. And if I had money I'd go on in and try on everything. I saw a picture of a gown I'd like—all silver spangles with a pointed train. Do you know I've never worn a train? I should like one—and a big fan with feathers."
He shook his head. "Trains wouldn't suit your style. Nor big fans. You ought to have a little fan—of sandalwood, with a purple and green tassel and smelling sweet. Mother says that her mother carried a fan like that at a White House ball."
"I've never been to a ball."
"Well, you needn't want to go. It's a cram and a jam and everybody bored to death."
"I shouldn't be bored. I should love it."
His eyes were on the fire. And presently he said, "It seems queer to be away from it—New York. There's something about it that gets into your blood. You want it—as you do—drink."
"Then you'll be going back."
He jerked around to look at her. "No," sharply; "what makes you say that?"
"Because—it—it doesn't seem possible that you could be—buried—here."