Abbie turned over the endless sets of
handkerchiefs in bewildering indecision.
"Take this box; do, Abbie," Ester urged. "This monogram in the corner
is lovely, and that is the dearest little sprig in the world."
"Which is precisely what troubles me," laughed Abbie. "It is
entirely too dear. Think of paying such an enormous sum for just
handkerchiefs!"
Ralph, who was lounging near her, trying hard not to look bored,
elevated his eyebrows as his ear caught the sentence, and addressed
her in undertone: "Is Foster hard up? If he is, you are not on his
hands yet, Sis; and I'm inclined to think father is good for all the
finery you may happen to fancy."
"That only shows your ignorance of the subject or your high opinion
of me. I assure you were I so disposed I could bring father's affairs
into a fearful tangle this very day, just by indulging a fancy for
finery."
"Are his affairs precarious, Abbie, or is finery prodigious?"
Abbie laid her hand on a square of cobwebby lace. "That is
seventy-five dollars, Ralph."
"What of that? Do you want it?" And Ralph's hand was in his pocket.
Abbie turned with almost a shiver from the counter. "I hope not,
Ralph," she said with sudden energy.
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