She should have been able to give her dinners in her own magnificent New York mansion.

As it was, there was nothing for her except to dress and accept the inevitable.
It was as bad as if Napoleon the Great had been forced to ride to battle on a trolley car, instead of being booted and spurred and astride a charger, which lifted one fore-leg in a fling of scorn.

Of course Wilbur would meet her, and they would take a taxicab, but even a taxicab seemed rather humiliating to her.

It should have been her own private motor car.

And she would be obliged to descend the stairs at the station ungracefully, one hand clutching nervously at the tail of her gorgeous gown, the other at her evening cloak.