r a plain sheet with the hotel address.

It was amusing to write the note in her mother's name--she giggled as
she formed the phrase "I shall be happy to permit my daughter to take
dinner with you" ("take dinner" seemed more elegant than Mrs. Fairford's
"dine")--but when she came to the signature she was met by a new
difficulty. Mrs. Fairford had signed herself "Laura Fairford"--just as
one school-girl would write to another. But could this be a proper model
for Mrs. Spragg? Undine could not tolerate the thought of her mother's
abasing herself to a denizen of regions beyond Park Avenue, and she
resolutely formed the signature: "Sincerely, Mrs. Abner E. Spragg." Then
uncertainty overcame her, and she re-wrote her note and copied Mrs.
Fairford's formula: "Yours sincerely, Leota B. Spragg." But this struck
her as an odd juxtaposition of formality and freedom, and she made a
third attempt: "Yours with love, Leota B. Spragg." This, however,
seemed excessive, as the ladies had never met; and after several other
experiments she finally decided on a compromise, and ended the note:
"Yours sincerely, Mrs. Leota B. Spragg." That might be conventional.
Undine reflected, but it was certainly correct. This point settled, she
flung open her door, calling imperiously down the passage: "Celeste!"
and adding, as the French maid appeared: "I want to look over all my
dinner-dresses."

Considering the extent of Miss Spragg's wardrobe her dinner-dresses were
not many. She had ordered a number the year before but, vexed at her
lack of use for them, had tossed them over impatiently to the maid.
Since then, indeed, she and Mrs. Spragg had succumbed to the abstract
pleasure of buying two or three more, simply because they were too
exquisite and Undine looked too lovely in them; but she had grown tired
of these also--tired of seeing them hang unworn in her wardrobe, like so
many derisive points of interrogation. And now, as Celeste spread them
out on the bed, they seemed disgustingly common-place, and as familiar
as if she had danced them to shreds. Nevertheless, she yielded to the
maid's persuasions and tried them on.

The first and second did not gain by prolonged inspection: they looked
old-fashioned already. "It's something about the sleeves," Undine
grumbled as she threw them aside.

The third was certainly the prettiest; but then it was the one she
had worn at the hotel dance the night before and the impossibility of
wearing it again wi