A girl—at my age—is grown-up. For she needed him. These dinners, from their lavish display of ambiguous hors d’oeuvre to their skimpy ices in dishes of frilled paper, with their Chianti flasks and Parmesan dishes and their polyglot waiters and polyglot clientele, were very funny and bright; and she really liked Ramage, and valued his help and advice. You see—I didn’t understand. However, the scheme answered well enough, for Darrell has got off with his own brat. I really must leave you now. He had been the one to dress her in the finest silks and brocades, and here she was, displayed for the world to see in 248 drugstore makeup and the uniform of an old schoolteacher. She wanted to live. “I—I didn’t love the man I was engaged to,” she said.
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