I could break the bad news gently to Blakely.

If I were a man, I couldn't love a girl who owned such a hideous house.
But I didn't have a chance to talk house to Blakely for some time.
When he came in to dinner that night he looked awfully depressed; he brightened up a lot, though, when he saw me.

I had on my most becoming gown, and Dad had ordered a grand dinner, including his own special brand of Burgundy.

If Dad knew as much about architecture as he does about wine, they'd insist on his designing all the buildings for the next world's fair.
All through dinner Blakely wasn't quite himself--I could see it; I think Dad saw it, too-but I knew he would tell us what was the matter as soon as he had an opportunity.

One, of the sweetest things about Blakely is his perfect frankness.