me old things--over and over again! Eleanor don't you get sick of
it?" queried Carley.

"Oh yes, to tell the truth," returned Eleanor, thoughtfully. "But
there's nothing else to do."

"Eleanor, I'm no better than you," said Carley, with disdain. "I'm as
useless and idle. But I'm beginning to see myself--and you--and all this
rotten crowd of ours. We're no good. But you're married, Eleanor. You're
settled in life. You ought to do something. I'm single and at loose
ends. Oh, I'm in revolt!... Think, Eleanor, just think. Your husband
works hard to keep you in this expensive apartment. You have a car.
He dresses you in silks and satins. You wear diamonds. You eat your
breakfast in bed. You loll around in a pink dressing gown all morning.
You dress for lunch or tea. You ride or golf or worse than waste your
time on some lounge lizard, dancing till time to come home to dress
for dinner. You let other men make love to you. Oh, don't get sore. You
do.... And so goes the round of your life. What good on earth are you,
anyhow? You're just a--a gratification to the senses of your husband.
And at that you don't see much of him."

"Carley, how you rave!" exclaimed her friend. "What has gotten into
you lately? Why, everybody tells me you're--you're queer! The way you
insulted Morrison--how unlike you, Carley!"

"I'm glad I found the nerve to do it. What do you think, Eleanor?"

"Oh, I despise him. But you can't say the things you feel."

"You'd be bigger and truer if you did. Some day I'll break out and flay
you and your friends alive."

"But, Carley, you're my friend and you're just exactly like we are. Or
you were, quite recently."

"Of course, I'm your friend. I've always loved you, Eleanor," went on
Carley, earnestly. "I'm as deep in this--this damned stagnant muck as
you, or anyone. But I'm no longer blind. There's something terribly
wrong with us women, and it's not what Morrison hinted."

"Carley, the only thing wrong with you is that you jilted poor
Glenn--and are breaking your heart over him still."

"Don't--don't!" cried Carley, shrinking. "God knows that is true. But
there's more wrong with me than a blighted love affair."

"Yes, you mean the modern feminine unrest?"

"Eleanor, I positively hate that phrase 'modern feminine unrest!' It
smacks of ultra--ultra--Oh! I don't know what. That phrase ought to be
translated by a Western acquaintance of mine--one Haze Ruff. I'd not
like to hurt your sensitive feelings