unbecoming neck line, Lucretia found herself sitting beside Professor Blake about nine o'clock, trying very hard to follow the course of his conversation. Her head ached; there was a continual buzzing in her ears (she must have taken too much quinine), and she had to clench her hands tightly together in her lap every once in a while to keep her teeth from chattering. She simply must not begin to shake and tremble here. She began counting how many half-hours it would be before she could escape to the dark sewing-room up-stairs. She wished the topaz-colored champagne, which she didn't touch, sparkling there in the crystal glass before her, had been hot jamaica-ginger tea in a thick crockery cup.
"Now, Miss Hamilton," Lucretia suddenly heard Professor Blake ask, smiling at her expectantly, "what is your idea of heaven?"
Lucretia almost jumped. "Heaven?" What had heaven to do with landscape gardening? Professor Blake had been describing the nature of bulbs to her a moment ago. "Heaven?" Why should any sane mortal pursue such horribly deep subjects at a dinner party, anyhow? Lucretia's idea of heaven? A hot-water bag and a fresh nightgown flashed before her eyes.
"My idea of heaven?" she smiled, trying to focus her thoughts. "My idea of heaven, Mr.
