Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. “Are you A, B, C, or D?” he asked. She did not speak to John in the week of school left after the Prom. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. “I have come for an explanation,” she said. “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. Almost the last female to bear the name, too,’ muttered the old lady. Shoplatch. ‘And she’s—’ She broke off, a sudden light in her eyes. She had looked forward to an explanation.
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