When Mr. Stanley came home at a quarter to six—an earlier train by fifteen minutes than he affected—his sister met him in the hall with a hushed expression. "I'm so glad you're here, Peter," she said. "She means to go." "Go!" he said. "Where?" "To that ball." "What ball?" The question was rhetorical. He knew. "I believe she's dressing up-stairs—now." "Then tell her to undress, confound her!" The City had been thoroughly annoying that day, and he was angry from the outset. Miss Stanley reflected on this proposal for a moment. "I don't think she will," she said. "She must," said Mr. Stanley, and went into his study. His sister followed. "She can't go now. She'll have to wait for dinner," he said, uncomfortably. "She's going to have some sort of meal with the Widgetts down the Avenue, and go up with them. "She told you that?" "Yes." "When?" "At tea." "But why didn't you prohibit once for all the whole thing? How dared she tell you that?" "Out of defiance. She just sat and told me that was her arrangement.
