And a custom had grown up of a general tea at four o’clock, under the auspices of a Miss Garvice, a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed. The fragrance of dryer sheets lay upon her like the snow that now drifted peacefully outside. “Hello? She’s like, your girlfriend, not mine. Her father was right: Ruth must never know. ’ ‘Tchah!’ He glared at her. “I don’t know. Well, kill me. ‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield.
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