"
"She is so splendid and competent, Aunt Cilla. Mills says so. Everybody
says it. Things are easy for her that would be hard for other people."
"I wonder what she thinks of you?"
Dulcie, drawing off her gloves, meditated.
"I fancy she likes me. I know I love her, but not so much as I love
Mills."
Fifteen years ago Dulcie would have died rather than admit her love for
a married man. But since then she had seen life through the eyes of a
worldly-minded old husband, and it had made a difference.
At dinner that night Dulcie was exquisite in orchid tulle with a string
of pearls that hung to her knees. Her hair was like ripe corn, waved and
parted on the side with a girlish knot behind. Her skin was as fresh as
a baby's. Mary was in black net. She had been very busy helping the
cook, and she had had little time to spend on her hair. She looked ten
years older than Dulcie, and her mind was absolutely on the dinner. The
dinner was really very good. Mills had been extremely anxious about it.
He had called up Mary from down-town to tell her that he was bringing
home fresh asparagus.
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