n her thoughts. There was Martha, in comfortable, corsetless
expansiveness--an ideal illustration of the worthless idler fattening
in purposelessness. She was engaged with all her energies in preparing
for the ball Hugo Galland's sister, Mrs. Bertrand, was giving at the
assembly rooms that night.

"I've been hard at it for several days now," said she. "I think at
last I see daylight. But I want your opinion."

Jane gazed absently at the dress and accompanying articles that had
been assembled with so much labor. "All right," said she. "You'll look
fine and dandy."

Martha twitched. "Jane, dear--don't say that--don't use such an
expression. I know it's your way of joking. But lots of people would
think you didn't know any better."

"Let 'em think," said Jane. "I say and do as I please."

Martha sighed. Here was one member of her family who could be a
credit, who could make people forget the unquestionably common origin
of the Hastingses and of the Morleys. Yet this member was always
breaking out into something mortifying, something reminiscent of the
farm and of the livery stable--for the deceased Mrs. Hastings had been
daughter of a livery stable keeper--in fact, had caught Martin Hastings
by the way she rode her father's horses at a sale at a county fair.
Said Martha:

"You haven't really looked at my clothes, Jane. Why DID you go back to
calling yourself Jane?"

"Because it's my name," replied her sister.

"I know that. But you hated it and changed it to Jeanne, which is so
much prettier."

"I don't think so any more," replied Miss Hastings. "My taste has
improved. Don't be so horribly middle class, Martha--ashamed of
everything simple and natural."

"You think you know it all--don't you?--just because you've lived
abroad," said Martha peevishly.

"On the contrary, I don't know one-tenth as much as I thought I did,
when I came back from Wellesley with a diploma."

"Do you like my costume?" inquired Martha, eying her finery with the
fond yet dubious expression of the woman who likes her own taste but is
not sure about its being good taste.

"What a lazy, worthless pair we are!" exclaimed Jane, hitting her boot
leg a tremendous rap with her little cane.

Martha startled. "Good God--Jane--what is it?" she cried.

"On the way here I passed a lot of factories," pursued Jane. "Why
should those people have to work like--like the devil, while we sit
about planning ball dresses?"

Martha se