An acute observer would have noted that Miss Penhope’s muslin gown was not quite of the latest fashion and designed for a long life of moderate use. Miss Penhope, already twenty-four, considered herself beyond the marriage age and therefore did not hold with the fripperies that many younger maidens affected. She was, however, by no means a bluestocking. Though at the present moment the sunshine had escaped her notice and her clear gray eyes were screwed up in a perplexed frown, those same eyes could, and did, dance merrily with laughter. Perhaps this was fortunate, for Louisa Penhope was the sole support of two lovable but eccentric aunts and a younger brother and sister, to say nothing of the servants whose presence in the house on Arlington Street was absolutely necessary to the peace of mind of everyone but Louisa herself. It was this circumstance that wrinkled Louisa’s forehead and caused her to chew reflectively on one knuckle. “It is not going well,” she said to herself, surveying the pages of neat writing that lay strewn on the desk before her.
