IVIt would have been hard, Nona Manford thought, to find a greater contrast than between Lita Wyant’s house and that at which, two hours later, she descended from Lita Wyant’s smart Brewster.
“You won’t come, Lita?” The girl paused, her hand on the motor door. “He’d like it awfully.”
Lita shook off the suggestion. “I’m not in the humour.”
“But he’s such fun—he can be better company than anybody.”
“Oh, for you he’s a fad—for me he’s a duty; and I don’t happen to feel like duties.” Lita waved one of her flower-hands and was off.
Nona mounted the pock-marked brown steps. The house was old Mrs. Wyant’s, a faded derelict habitation in a street past which fashion and business had long since flowed. After his mother’s death Wyant, from motives of economy, had divided it into small flats. He
