BAYNE HAD HAD a wonderful morning. Nothing was too fine for her; she wanted only the best. “Haven’t you a better quality?” she would demand, in quite her old-time manner, and out would come boxes and wrappings; and out of those, again, wonderful things: stockings and handkerchiefs, underwear and linen. But she did not buy Holly’s household linens at Steinfeldt and Roder’s. Not since Margaret’s marriage had she been in that store. By noon she was very tired. She went up to the restaurant and ordered herself a frugal luncheon, and while waiting for it, she listed her expenditures so far. She had done extremely well, she reflected. True, Holly would not have so many of each sort of thing—she herself had had two dozen of everything when she had married—but what Holly had was very good. Mrs. Bayne was in high good humour, and when the head waiter remembered her and came to speak to her, it was like old times indeed. “Glad to see you here again, Mrs. Bayne. You don’t honour us any more.”
