“Got your rubbers on?” called Cousin Stickles, as Valancy left the house.

 

Christine Stickles had never once forgotten to ask that question when Valancy went out on a damp day.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Have you got your flannel¹ petticoat on?” asked Mrs. Frederick.

 

“No.”

 

“Doss, I really do not understand you. Do you want to catch your death of cold again?” Her voice implied that Valancy had died of a cold several times already. “Go upstairs this minute and put it on!”

 

“Mother, I don’t need a flannel petticoat. My sateen one is warm enough.”

 

“Doss, remember you had bronchitis two years ago. Go and do as you are told!”

 

Valancy went, though nobody will ever know just how near she came to hurling² the rubber-plant into the street before she went. She hated that grey flannel petticoat more than any other garment she owned. Olive never had to wear flannel petticoats. Olive wore ruffled³ silk and sheer lawn and filmy laced flounces. But Olive’s father had “married money” and Olive never had bronchitis. So there you were.

 

“Are you sure you didn’t leave the soap in the water?” demanded Mrs. Frederick. But Valancy was gone. She turned at the corner and looked back down the ugly, prim⁴, respectable street where she lived. The Stirling house was the ugliest on it—more like a red brick box than anything else. Too high for its breadth, and made still higher by a bulbous glass cupola on top. About it was the desolate⁵, barren peace of an old house whose life is lived.

 

There was a very pretty little house, with leaded casements⁶ and dubbed⁷ gables, just around the corner—a new house, one of those houses you love the minute you see them. Clayton Markley had built it for his bride. He was to be married to Jennie Lloyd in June. The little house, it was said, was furnished from

分享到：