"You've been up--?"

"Last week at Garden City. I'm crazy about it."

"Yes, child, crazy--mad. I've done what I could to keep your
amusements within the bounds of reason and without avail, but I
wouldn't be doing my duty to your sainted mother if I didn't try to
save you from yourself. I shall do something to prevent this--this
madcap venture--I don't know what. I shall see Mr. Winthrop at the
Trust Company. There must be some way--"

The pendants in the good lady's ears trembled in the light, and her
hand groped for her handkerchief. "You _can't_, Hermia. I'll not
permit it. I'll get out an injunction--or something. It was all very
well when you were a child--but now--do you realize that you're a
woman, a grown woman, with responsibilities to the community? It's
time that you were married, settled down and took your proper place in
New York. I had hoped that you would have matured and forgotten the
childish pastimes of your girlhood but now--now--"

Mrs. Westfield, having found her handkerchief, wept into it, her
emotions too deep for other expression, while Hermia, now really
moved, sank at her feet upon the floor, her arms about her Aunt's
shoulders, and tried to comfort her. "I'm not the slightest use in
the world, Auntie, dear. I haven't a single homely virtue to recommend
me. I'm only fit to ride and dance and motor and frivol. And whom
should I marry? Surely not Reggie Armistead or Crosby Downs! Reggie
and I have always fought like cats across a wire, and as for Crosby--I
would as life marry the great Cham of Tartary. No, dear, I'm not
ready for marriage yet. I simply couldn't. There, there, don't cry.