But I couldn't do a thing, not a thing, not for
a long time. Then I happened to say what a lovely dress, only what a
pity it was that the lace was all black.
She gave a little choking cry then, and began to talk--little short
sentences all choked up with sobs, so that I could hardly tell what
she was talking about. Then, little by little, I began to understand.
She said yes, it was all black--tarnished; and that it was just like
everything that she had had anything to do with--tarnished: her
life and her marriage, and Father's life, and mine--everything was
tarnished, just like that silver lace on that dress. And she had done
it by her thoughtless selfishness and lack of self-discipline.
And when I tried and tried to tell her no, it wasn't, and that I
didn't feel tarnished a bit, and that she wasn't, nor Father either,
she only cried all the more, and shook her head and began again, all
choked up.
She said this little dress was the one she wore at the big reception
where she first met Father. It was a beautiful blue then, all shining
and spotless, and the silver lace glistened like frost in the
sunlight. And she was so proud and happy when Father--and he was fine
and splendid and handsome then, too, she said--singled her out, and
just couldn't seem to stay away from her a minute all the evening.
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