“What’s the objection?” “I suppose she ought to know?” said Gwen to her mother, trying to alter the key of the conversation. . You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. The boat in which he rode was not overset. The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. “Perhaps for me,” she added, with a sudden wistful look out of the bare high window, “a night of beginnings.
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