so
surprised I could only grab John and tell him to look. I did shriek at
her at last, and she saw us and lighted up and smiled. Just that old
smile of hers, you know. But her car was turning west, down past
Sherry's, and we were going straight ahead and we weren't quick enough
to tell the chauffeur to turn, too. We did turn on Forty-third and came
around the block, and of course we missed her.

"We went to three musical shows in the next two days, in the hope of
spotting her in the chorus. But she wasn't in any of them, and then I
simply dragged John home. There was no way of finding her of course, nor
of her finding us, because John's given up the Holland House at last and
taken to the Vanderbilt. But it was rather maddening."

"Well, I don't know," said Constance. "Oh, yes, maddening of course,
because one would be curious. But that sort of curiosity might prove
pretty expensive if you gratified it. Talk about the clutch of a
drowning person! It's nothing to the clutch of a _declassee_ woman. And
if she's been somebody once who really mattered, and somebody you were
really fond of ... Because it _is_ no use. They can't ever come back."

Violet stirred in her chair. "Of course we're all perfectly good
Christians," she observed ironically. "And once a week we say 'Forgive
us our debts,' besides teaching it to the kids."

Constance broke in on her hotly. "Oh, come, Violet! You know it's not a
question of forgiveness. I don't claim any moral superiority over Rose.
I'm just talking about her social possibility. A person who does an
outrageous thing, knowing it's outrageous, just because he--or
she--wants to do it, can be downright immoral without being impossible.
But a person who's done the other sort of thing, a shabby thing--and
what Rose did was shabby--will always be on the defensive about it. They
can't let it alone. They're always making references you can't ignore;
always seeing references in perfectly harmless things that other people
say. And the only society where they're ever happy, is that of a lot of
other people with shady, shabby things that _they're_ on the defensive
about. And they all get together and call it Bohemia. And they sprawl
around in studios and talk about sex and try to feel superior and
emancipated. Well, maybe they are. All I say is they don't belong with
us. Oh, you know it's true! You hate that as much as I do."

"Oh, yes," said Violet. "Only, since I've seen Rose--even for that
min