’ ‘Can you prove it?’ demanded Hilary. “Sufficient unto me is the change thereof,” he said, with all the effect of an epigram. “John?” He turned around in the recliner. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. 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. Spurling, who sat on the right of the table. Wanton!… This, then, was what her father had meant.
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