You certainly had me worn to a frazzle--before we became engaged,"
said Carley.
"Old times! How long ago they seem! . . . Carley, it's sure wonderful to
see you."
"How do you like my gown?" asked Carley, pirouetting for his benefit.
"Well, what little there is of it is beautiful," he replied, with a slow
smile. "I always liked you best in white. Did you remember?"
"Yes. I got the gown for you. And I'll never wear it except for you."
"Same old coquette--same old eternal feminine," he said, half sadly. "You
know when you look stunning. . . . But, Carley, the cut of that--or rather
the abbreviation of it--inclines me to think that style for women's clothes
has not changed for the better. In fact, it's worse than two years ago in
Paris and later in New York. Where will you women draw the line?"
"Women are slaves to the prevailing mode," rejoined Carley. "I don't
imagine women who dress would ever draw a line, if fashion went on
dictating."
"But would they care so much--if they had to work--plenty of work--and
children?" inquired Glenn, wistfully.
"Glenn! Work and children for modern women? Why, you are dreaming!" said
Carley, with a laugh.
She saw him gaze thoughtfully into the glowing embers of the fire, and as
she watched him her quick intuition grasped a subtle change in his mood.
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