Yet—there were things to dread. She would have to meet his friends. Be judged by them. There would be formal entertaining. Edith had said once that the demand of society on women was really high-class drudgery. “Much worse than washing dishes.”
Jane didn’t quite believe that. Yet there must be a happy medium. Her dreams had had to do with a little house—a little garden.
She went back to her own little house, and found a great box of roses waiting. She spent an hour filling vases and bowls with them. Old Sophy coming in from the kitchen said, “Looks lak dat Mistuh Towne’s jes’ fascinated with you, Miss Janey.”
“Aren’t the roses lovely, Sophy?” Jane wanted to tell Sophy that Mr. Towne would some day be her husband. But she still deferred the announcement of her engagement.
“I’ve told one or two people,” Frederick had said.
“Whom?”
“Well, Adelaide. She’s such an old friend. And I told Annabel, of course. I don’t see why you should care, Jane.”
“I think I’m afraid that when I go into a shop someone will say, ‘Oh, she’s going to marry Frederick Towne, and see how shabby she is.’”
“You are never shabby.”
“That’s because I made myself two new dresses while I was at Judy’s. And this is one of them.”