Part 28 (2/2)

”Yes--not much difference.”

”But don't you feel--oh, dear--that seems so queer--what _is_ your social position?”

”Oh, I don't know. I've cut loose from all that.”

”I know, but still you've got to think about the future. For instance, how would we feel if Malcolm wrote he was going to marry a clerk--or somebody like that--or a manicurist?”

”If she had education to match his--I should think it was very nice.”

”Oh, no, you wouldn't. That's talk. Most people wouldn't anyhow. You are awfully queer, Ruth. You aren't a bit like anybody I know. Don't you sometimes feel hungry for relations with people of your own cla.s.s?

Friendly relations, I mean? Something different from the relations of a clerk to a customer? I would. You are just queer.” Then suddenly she exclaimed, ”Who's that?”

Virginia had pa.s.sed through the room.

”Oh, that's Virginia. That's Miss Van de Vere.”

”My dear,” said Edith, impressed, ”she was a guest at Mrs. Sewall's once, when you were out West. She's so striking! I saw her at the station when she arrived--Van de Vere--yes, that was the name. It was in the paper. They spoke of her as a talented artist. Everybody was just crazy about her in Hilton. She was at Mrs. Sewall's two weeks. She was reported engaged to a duke Mrs. Sewall had hanging around. I remember distinctly. What is she doing around here?”

”Why, she and I run this establishment,” I announced.

”Good heavens! Does she sell people things?”

”Why, of course, Edith, why not?”

”Well--of all things! I don't know what we're coming to. I should think England _would_ call us barbarians. Why, in England, even a man who is in trade has a hard time getting into society. But do introduce me to her if there's a chance before I go.”

Later Edith exclaimed, ”By the way, my dear, you'll be interested to know I've turned suffrage.”

”How did that happen?”

”Of course I wouldn't march or anything like that, and I think militancy is simply awful, but you'd be surprised how popular suffrage is getting at home. I gave a bridge in interest of it. Lots of prominent people are taking it up. Look here,” she broke off abruptly, ”when can you come up for a Sunday? I'm just crazy to get hold of you and have a good old talk.”

”Oh, almost any time. I'm anxious to see nice old Hilton again.”

”Well, we must plan it. How would you like to bring that Miss Van de Vere? In the spring when the summer people get here. She has quite a number of admirers among them. I'd just love to give you a little tea or something.”

Same old Edith! A wave of tenderness swept over me for her--faults and all. ”Of course we'll come,” I laughed. ”I'll arrange it.”

I knew in a flash that I should never quarrel with my sister-in-law again. She was no more to blame than a child with a taste for sweets.

Why feel bitterness and rancor? She was only a victim of her environment after all. My tenderness--was a revelation. I hadn't realized that tolerance had been part of my soul's growth--tolerance even toward the principles from which I had once fled in righteous indignation.

Tom dropped in at Van de Vere's some time in the spring.

”Looks like a woman's business,” he almost sneered, critically surveying the striped walls of the reception-room; and later, ”Impractical and affected, I call it,” he said. ”If I was building a house I'd steer clear of any such place as this.”

”Wait a minute,” I replied pleasantly. ”Come with me,” and I took Tom into the well-lighted rooms at the rear, where our workers were engaged, at the time, on a rush order. ”Does that look affected, Tom?” I asked.

”Every one of those girls is living a decent and self-respecting life, many of them are helping in their family finances; and besides, the few stockholders of Van de Vere's are going to get a ten per cent dividend on their holdings next year. Does that strike you as impractical and affected, too?”

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