Violet wondered why she did it, why they all did it, why they ever did it.
        Why did they endure it?
        Perhaps they liked it.
        She plumbed the recesses of her nature and could find no such affinity. It was ridiculous that a step, a merest step, 1 of many, should arrest 1, a fully grown woman, with such certain challenge.
        It was an affront.
        It was ridiculous.
        It was only so because fashion decreed.
        Fashion. Whence and hence fashion? Violet's mobile lips, boldly, subtly rouged, smiled. It was a lucky thing she exercised equanimity. With modicum of competence she mounted the stairs and pulled the bell gazing into her murky face pooled within the oval glass. Several maids approached her in the hardy bevel. It was Italian glass she determined and wished all the same for her rational, sensible skirt she took walking into the hills.
        "Tea, Avis," Violet smiled to the maid, "I've come across town for it, and I would go farther."
        "Mum." Avis was grim.
        Avis, Cleo declared, knew 2 words. Mum was 1 of them.
        No was the other.
        "I'll find my way."
        What a silly thing to say. Violet continued to be amused at herself and everything and was suitably unconcerned by this attitude many would find novel not to say dangerous. It was also silly because Avis never ushered anyone anywhere, left all to wander, meander, flounder, or rocket, as they  might. Violet left her scowling in the shadowed entry and passed through the cool library smelling of carpet, oiled leather, cold hearth, and leaves of paper embraced in gleaming walnut and leaded glass and reached the garden.
        She stepped out into the sun.