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"Why, what's wrong?"

"Just let me tell you.... O, I'm so upset. I haven't been able to practice a minute all day. I haven't been so upset since I broke off my engagement and sent Billy back his ring.... It's about Mabel Worthington."

"But Fitzie, who's Mabel Worthington?"

"I must have told you about her. She was such a lovely girl, one of our second violins.... Nancibel, you never pay any attention when I tell you things; I think it's mean of you.... O, it's too dreadful and I'm just miserable about it.... Look, dear, won't you walk a little up Huntington Avenue? I was just going to get a soda ... so soothing, you know, dear, and I know the nicest candy store just a block up."

As they followed the path towards the Unitarian Church between grass patches dappled with russet of leaves, Nan could feel the eyes of the men on the benches, eyes indolent after a bloating Sunday breakfast, dazzled by following the smudgy sharpscented columns of Sunday newspapers, eyes blurred by Saturday night parties; their glances seemed to weave a warm shameful net to catch her wellpoised ankles and the erect slenderness of her figure in its closely tailored tweed. Fitzie was still talking.