Also, she gave him little chance; for in almost
the same breath she went on: "I've been in such moods!--since
yesterday afternoon--like the devils in Milton, isn't it?--that
are swept from lands of ice to lands of fire?--or is it in Dante?
I never can remember. We must go straight off, for I'm late. You
can come, too--it's only a little meeting about some charity or
other. All rich people, of course--except poor me. I'm sure I
don't know why they asked me. I can give little besides advice.
How handsome you are to-day, Joshua!"
It was the first time she had called him by his first name. She
repeated it--"Joshua--Joshua"--as when one hits upon some
particularly sweet and penetrating chord at the piano, and strikes
it again, and yet again.
They were in the carriage, being whirled toward the great palace
of Mrs. Whitson, the latest and grandest of plutocratic monuments
that have arisen upon the ruins of the old, old-fashioned American
Washington. And she talked incessantly--a limpid, sparkling,
joyous strain. And either her hand sought his or his hers; at any
rate, he found himself holding her hand. They were almost there
before he contrived to say, very falteringly: "You got my note?"
She laughed gayly.
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