She hated her dress, her hat, the way she had done her hair.

The image of Constance in her white silk hat with its drooping feathers, her delicately embroidered dress and the necklace on her shapely throat, tormented her.

She was sick with envy--and with fear.

For months she had clung to the belief that Herbert Pryce would ask her to marry him.

And now all expectation of the magic words was beginning to fade from her mind.