Lucy’s fair cheeks were flushed. “Why, of course I do.”
“Well, we don’t—not many of us,” said Edith. “The thing you have got to do is to interest Del in something. Don’t just go sailing away with him in his yacht. Buy a farm over in Virginia, and help him make a success of it.”
“But he lives in New York.”
“Of course he does. But he can live anywhere. He’s so rich that he doesn’t have to earn anything, and his office is just a fiction. You must make him work. Go in for a fad; blooded horses, cows, black Berkshires. Do you know what a black Berkshire is, Lucy?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, it’s a kind of a pig. And that’s the thing for you and Del. He really loves fine stock. And you and he—think of it—riding over the country—planning your gardens—having a baby or two.” Edith was going very fast.
“It sounds heavenly,” said Lucy.
“Then make it Heaven. Oh, Lucy, Lucy, you lucky girl—you are going to marry the man you love. Live away from the world—share happiness and unhappiness——” She rose from the table restlessly, pushing back her chair, dropping her napkin on the floor. “Do you know how I envy you?”
She went to the window and stood looking out. “And here I sit, day after day, like a prisoner in a tower—and my page sings—that was the beginning of it—and it will be the end.”
“No,” Lucy was very serious, “you mustn’t let it be the end. You—you must open the window, Miss Towne.”