In near-by cabins, young matrons like herself were
likewise solving the children's summer problem, she was never
lonely, and the eight free, pine-scented weeks were cloudlessly
happy. She told Bert that it was the only sensible solution for
persons in moderate circumstances; old clothes, simple food, utter
solitude.
"There are no comparisons to spoil things," Nancy said,
contentedly. "I know I'm small-minded, Bert. But seeing things I
can't have does upset me, somehow!"
Chapter Ten
Nevertheless, she accepted the invitation that came from Bert's
cousin Dorothy, one autumn, for a week-end visit. Dorothy had
married now, and had a baby. She was living in a rented "place,"
up near Rhinecliff, she wrote, and she wanted to see something of
Cousin Bert.
Neither Bert nor Nancy could afterward remember exactly why they
went. It was partly curiosity, perhaps; partly the strong lure
exerted by Dorothy's casual intimation that "the car" would come
for them, and that this particular week-end was "the big dance, at
the club." Bert chanced to have a new suit, and Nancy had a
charming blue taffeta that seemed to her good enough for any place
or anybody.
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