Your gowns would not look so well in the forest." It was a moment before Mrs.Lancaster's face relaxed.
"I suppose I should," she said slowly, with something very like a sigh.
"He was the only man I ever knew who made me do what I did not want to do and made me wish to be something better than I was," she added absently.
Mrs.Wentworth glanced at her somewhat impatiently, but she went on: "I was very romantic then; and you should have heard him read the 'Idylls of the King.' He had the most beautiful voice.

He made you live in Arthur's court, because he lived there himself." Mrs.Wentworth burst into laughter, but it was not very merry.
"My dear Alice, you must have been romantic.

How old were you, did you say ?" "It was three years before I was married," said Mrs.Lancaster, firmly.
Her friend gazed at her with a puzzled expression on her face.
"Oh! Now, my dear Alice, don't let's have any more of this sentimentalizing.

I never indulge in it; it always gives me a headache.
One might think you were a school-girl." At the word a wood in all the bravery of Spring sprang into Alice's mind.

A young girl was seated on the mossy ground, and outstretched at her feet was a young man, fresh-faced and clear-eyed, quoting a poem of youth and of love.
"Heaven knows I wish I were," said Mrs.Lancaster, soberly.