Winters paid the sum she always makes you guess about, at a charity-
bazaar.
Mrs. Winters herself--the Mrs. Winters who is _so_ interested in young
people as long as they will do exactly what she wants them to--every inch
of her from her waved white hair to the black jet spangles on her dinner
gown or the notes of her "cultivated" voice as frosted and glittery and
artificial as a piece of _glace_ fruit. And with her, Nancy, dressed for
dinner too, because Mrs. Winters feels it to be one's duty to oneself to
dress for dinner always, no matter how much one's guests may wish to
relax--Nancy as much out of place in the apartment whose very cushions
seem to smell of that modern old-maidishness that takes itself for
superior feminist virtue as a crocus would be in an exhibition of wool
flowers--a Nancy who doesn't talk much and has faint blue stains under her
eyes.
"So everything went very satisfactorily indeed today, dear Nancy?"
Mrs. Winters' voice implies the uselessness of the question. Nancy is
staying with Mrs. Winters--it would be very strange indeed if even the
least important accompaniments of such a visit were not of the most
satisfactory kind.
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