Allison waited before the open fire until she came down, fresh and
tailor-made, in another gown and a white linen collar.

"I thought women always wore soft, fluffy things in the morning," he
observed, as they sat down.

"Some do--the fluffy ones, always."

"Who, for instance, are the fluffy ones?"

"Aunt Francesca for one and Isabel for another."

"How long is the kid going to stay?"

"Until she gets ready to go home, I suppose."

"I thought she had no home."

"She hasn't. Poor Isabel is a martyr to the Cause of Woman."

"How so?"

"Her mother is Emancipated, with a large E, and has no time for trifles
like a daughter. She devotes herself to what she calls the Higher World
Service."

"So Isabel is stranded, on a desert island."

"Yes, except for us."