It was of
these luxuries that Margaret was especially fond; and her
grandmother, with an instinct that those tastes of Margaret's
proved her indeed a lady--and made it impossible that she should
marry, or even think of marrying, "foolishly"--had been most
graciously generous in gratifying them. Now, these luxuries were
to be withdrawn, these pampered tastes were to be starved.
Margaret collapsed despairingly upon her table. "I wish to marry,
Heaven knows! Only--only--" She raised herself; her lip quivered--
"Good God, Grandmother, I CAN'T give myself to a man who repels
me! You make me hate men--marriage--everything of that kind.
Sometimes I long to hide in a convent!"
"You can indulge that longing after the end of this season," said
her grandmother. "You'll certainly hardly dare show yourself in
Washington, where you have become noted for your dress.... That's
what exasperates me against you! No girl appreciates refinement
and luxury more than you do. No woman has better taste, could use
a large income to better advantage. And you have intelligence. You
know you must have a competent husband. Yet you fritter away your
opportunities. A very short time, and you'll be a worn, faded old
maid, and the settled people who profess to be so fond of you will
be laughing at you, and deriding you, and pitying you.
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