The theme was a masquerade. She felt a little ashamed of herself, a bit of a hypocrite. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. A thousand eager assistants pressed behind him. This niggardliness compelled him to cross and recross streets. She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork. Greece was a different place. ” “You should try out for the town orchestra. She grew perhaps a shade paler, and she glanced out into the street, where her four-wheeler cab, laden with luggage, was still waiting.
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