"No, no--" Her discomfort was obvious now. "It isn't _you_. It's just that father was very particular and Lorry always tries to do what he would have liked." "My dear young lady, your father's been dead a good many years. Things have changed since then; the customs of his day are not the customs of ours. Of course I wouldn't suggest that you go counter to your sister's wishes, but"--he turned away from her, huffy, head high, a gentleman flouted in his pride--"it's rather absurd from my point of view. Oh, well, we'll say no more about it." Chrystie was distracted. It was not only the humiliation of appearing out of date and provincial; it was something much worse than that. She saw Boye Mayer retiring in majestic indignation and not coming back, leaving her at this first real blossoming of their friendship because Lorry had ideas that the rest of the world had abandoned with hoop skirts and chignons. "Why, why," she stammered, alarm pushing her to the recklessness of the desperate, "couldn't we go and not tell her? It's--it's--just a prejudice of Lorry's--no one else feels that way. The Barlow girls, who've been very strictly brought up, go walking and even go to the theater with"--she was going to say "their nuggets" and then changed with a gasp to--"the men their mother asks to her parties." So Chrystie, guileless and subjugated, assisted in the development of the Idea. She made an engagement to meet Mr. Mayer four days later in the Plaza and go with him to see the orchids in the park greenhouse. The Holy Spirit orchid was in bloom and she had never seen it. A flower with such a name as the Holy Spirit seemed to Chrystie in some way to shed an element of propriety if not righteousness over the adventure. It was when they were sauntering toward the end of the Plaza that a woman, coming up a side street, saw them. She was about to cross when her eye, ranging over the green lawns, brought up on them and she stopped, one foot advanced, its heel knocking softly against the curbstone. As the two tall figures moved her glance followed them, her head slowly turning. She watched them cross the intersection of the streets, lights chasing each other up and down the lady's waving skirt and gilding the web of golden hair; she watched them pass by a show window, its glassy surface holding their bright reflections; she watched their farewells at the door of a large shop which finally absorbed the lady. Then she faced about, and walked toward the Albion, where a rehearsal was awaiting her. That afternoon a week had passed since Pancha had seen her lover.