PART ONE - CHAPTER IV

by Kathleen Norris

　　The family of Dr. Robert Toland, discovered at breakfast in the Tolands'big house in Sausalito on an exquisite May morning, presented to thecasual onlooker as charming a picture of home life as might be found inthe length and breadth of California. The sunny dining-room, with itswindows wide open to sunshine and fresh sea air, the snowy curtainsblowing softly to and fro, the wide sideboard where the children'soutgrown mugs stood in a battered and glittering row, the one or twostiff, flat, old oil portraits that looked down from the walls, the jarsof yellow acacia bloom, and bowls of mingled wild flowers; these made asetting wonderfully well suited to the long table and the happy familyabout it.

　　There were seven children, five girls and two boys; there was thegracious, genial mother at the head and the wiry, gray-haired andgray-bearded surgeon at the foot; there was, as usual, Jim Studdiford,and to-day, besides, there was Aunt Sanna, an unmarried younger sisterof the doctor, and a little black-eyed, delicate ten-year-old guest ofthe eleven-year-old Janie, Keith Borroughs, who was sitting near toJanie, and evidently adoring that spirited chatterbox. And there wasAddie, a cheerful black-clad person in a crackling white apron, comingand going with muffins and bacon, and Toy, who was a young cousin ofHee, the cook, and who padded softly in Addie's wake, making himselfgenerally useful.

　　Barbara, very pretty, very casual as to what she ate, sat next to herfather; she was the oldest of the seven Tolands, and slipping veryreluctantly out of her eighteenth year. Ned, a big, handsome fellow ofsixteen, came next in point of age, and then a tall, lanky, awkwardblond boy, Richie, with a plain thin face and the sweetest smile of themall. Richie never moved without the aid of a crutch, and perhaps neverwould. After Richie, and nearing fourteen, was a sweet, fat, gigglinglump of a girl called Sally, with a beautiful skin and beautiful untidyhair, and a petticoat always dragging, a collar buttoned awry, and abelt that never by any chance united her pretty shirt waist to her crisplinen skirt. Only a year younger than Sally was Theodora, whose staid,precocious beauty Barbara already found disquieting—"Ted" was alreadygiving signs of rivalling her oldest sister—then came Jane, bold,handsome, boyish at eleven, and lastly eight-year-old Constance, adelicate, pretty, tearful little girl who was spoiled by every member ofthe family.

　　The children's mother was a plump, handsome little woman with bright,flashing eyes, dimples, and lovely little hands covered with rings.There was no gray in her prettily puffed hair, and, if she was stouterthan any of her daughters, none could show a more trimly controlledfigure. Mrs. Toland had been impressed in the days of her happy girlhoodwith the romantic philosophies of the seventies. To her, as an impulsiveyoung woman brimful of the zest of living, all babies had been "just toodear and sweet," all marriages were "simply lovely" regardless ofcircumstances, and all men were "just the dearest great big manlyfellows that ever were!" As Miss Sally Ford, Mrs. Toland had flashedabout on many visits to her girl friends admiring, exclaiming, rejoicingin their joys, and now, as a mother of growing girls and boys, therestill hung between her and real life the curtain of her unquenchableoptimism. She loved babies, and they had come very fast, and been caredfor by splendid maids, and displayed in effective juxtaposition to theirgay little mother for the benefit of admiring friends, when opportunityoffered. And if, in the early days of her married life, there had everbeen troublous waters to cross, Sally Toland had breasted themgallantly, her fixed, confident smile never wavering.

　　At first Doctor Toland had felt something vaguely amiss in thispersistent attitude of radiant and romantic surety. "Are you sure theboy understands?" "D'ye think Bab isn't old enough to know that you'rejust making that up?" he would ask uneasily, when a question ofdisciplining Ned or consoling Barbara arose. But Mrs. Toland always wassure of her course, and would dimple at him warningly: "Of course it'sall right, Daddykins, and we're all going to be happy, and not eventhink of our naughty old troubles any more!"

　　So the doctor gave her her way, and settled back to enjoy his childrenand his wife, his yacht and his roses; growing richer and more famous,more genial and perhaps a little more mildly cynical as time went on.And the children grew up, their mother, never dreaming that Barbara ateighteen was more than the sweet, light-hearted, manageable child shehad been at ten; that Ned was beginning to taste of a life of whoseexistence she was only vaguely aware; that Sally was plotting an escapeto the ranks of trained nurses; that Ted needed a firm hand and closewatching if she were not to break all their hearts. No, to Mrs. Tolandthey were still her "rosebud garden," "just the merriest, romping crowdof youngsters that ever a little scrap of a woman had to keep in order!"

　　"Now, you're going to wipe that horrid frown off your forehead, Daddy,"she would say blithely, if Doctor Toland confessed to a misgiving in thecontemplation of any one of his seven, "and stop worrying about Richie!His bad old hip is going to get well, and he'll be walking just like anyone else in no time!" And in the same tone she said to Barbara: "I knowmy darling girl is going to that luncheon, and going to forget that herhat isn't quite the thing for the occasion," and said to littleConstance, "We're going to forget that it's raining, and not think aboutdismal things any more!" No account of flood or fire or outrage wasgreat enough to win from her more than a rueful smile, a sigh, and abrisk: "Well, I suppose such things must be, or they wouldn't bepermitted. Don't let's think about it!"

　　Women who knew Mrs. Toland spoke of her as "wonderful." And indeed shewas wonderful in many ways, a splendid manager, a delightful hostess,and essentially motherly and domestic in type. She was always happy andalways busy, gathering violets, chaperoning Sally or Barbara at thedentist's, selecting plaids for the "girlies'" winter suits. Her marriedlife—all her life, in fact—had been singularly free from clouds, andshe expected the future to be even brighter, when "splendid, honourablemen" should claim her girls, one by one, and all the remembered romanceof her youth begin again. That the men would be forthcoming she did notdoubt; had not Fate already delivered Jim Studdiford into her hands forBarbara?

　　James Studdiford, who had just now finished his course at medicalcollege, was affectionately known to the young Tolands as "Jim," andstood to them in a relationship peculiarly pleasing to Mrs. Toland. Hewas like a brother, and yet, actually, he bore not the faintest realkinship to—well, to Barbara, for instance. Years before, twenty yearsbefore, to be exact, Doctor Toland, then unmarried, and unacquainted, asit happened, with the lovely Miss Sally Ford, had been engaged to abeautiful young widow, a Mrs. Studdiford, who had been left with a largefortune and a tiny boy some two years before. This was in Honolulu,where people did a great deal of riding in those days, and it presentlybefell that the doctor, two weeks before the day that had been set forthe wedding, found himself kneeling beside his lovely fiancee on a rockyheadland, as she lay broken and gasping where her horse had flung her,and straining to catch the last few agonized words she would ever say:

　　"You'll—keep Jim—with you, Robert?"

　　How Doctor Toland brought the small boy to San Francisco, how he met thedashing and indifferent Sally, and how she came at last to console himfor his loss, was another story, one that Mrs. Toland never tired oftelling. Little Jim had his place in their hearts from their weddingday. Barbara was eleven years old when, with passionate grief, shelearned that he was not her half brother, and many casual friends didnot know it to this day. Jim, to the doctor's delight, chose to followthe profession of his foster father, and had stumbled, with not too muchapplication, through medical college. Now he was to go to New York forhospital work, and then to Berlin for a year's real grind, and until theEastern hospital should open classes, was back in his old enormousthird-floor bedroom upstairs, enjoying a brief season of idleness andpetting, the handsome, unaffected, sunshiny big brother of Mrs. Toland'sfondest dreams.

　　"And he can hardly keep his eyes off Babbie," the mother confided to hersister-in-law.

　　Miss Toland gave her a shrewd glance.

　　"For heaven's sake don't get that notion in your head, Sally! Babbie maybe ready to make a little fool of herself, but if ever I saw a man whoisn't in love, it's Jim!" said Miss Toland, who was a thin, gray-haired,well-dressed woman of forty, with a curious magnetism quite her own.Miss Toland had lived in France for the ten years before thirty, and hada Frenchwoman's reposeful yet alert manner, and a Frenchwoman's art indressing. After many idle years, she had suddenly become deeplyinterested in settlement work, had built a little settlement house, "TheAlexander Toland Neighbourhood House," in one of the factory districtssouth of San Francisco, and was in a continual state of agitation andupset because worthy settlement workers were at that time almost anunknown quantity in California. Just at present she was availing herselfof her brother's hospitality because she had no assistant at all at the"Alexander," and was afraid to stay in its very unsavoury environmentalone. She loved Barbara dearly, but she was usually perverse with hersister-in-law.

　　"You may say what you like about notions in my head," Mrs. Tolandanswered with a wise little nod. "But the dear girl is radiant everytime she looks at him, and both Dad and I think we notice a newprotective quality in Jim—"

　　"Did Robert say so?" Miss Toland asked dryly. To this Mrs. Tolandanswered with a merry laugh and a little squeeze of her sister-in-law'sarm.

　　"Oh, you old Sanna!" she chided. "You won't believe that there's ablessed time when Nature just takes the young things by the hand andpushes them right into happiness, whether or no!"

　　This little talk had taken place just before breakfast, and now Mrs.Toland was reassuring herself of her own position with many a glance atBarbara and at Jim. Barbara seemed serious almost to ungraciousness—thatmight be a sign. Jim was teasing Sally, who laughed deeply and richly,like a child, and spilled her orange juice on her fresh gown. Perhaps hewas trying to pique Barbara by assuming an indifferent manner—thatmight be it——

　　"Jim!" It was Barbara speaking. Jim did not hear. "Jim," said Barbaraagain, patient and cold.

　　"I beg your pardon!" Jim said with swift contrition. His glance flashedto Barbara for a second, flashed back to Sally. "Now, you throwthat—you throw that," said he to the latter young woman, in referenceto a glass of water with which she was carelessly toying, "and you'll besorrier than you ever were in your life!"

　　"Sally, what are you thinking of!" her mother said.

　　"Look out—look out!" Sally said, swinging the glass up and down.Suddenly she set it back on the table firmly. "You deserve that straightin your face, Jim, but Mother'd be mad!"

　　"Well, I should think Mother would!" Mrs. Toland said, in smilingreproof. "But we interrupted Bab, I think. Bab had something dreadfullyimportant to say," she added playfully, "to judge from that great bigfrown!"

　　"It wasn't dreadfully important at all," Barbara said, in coldannoyance.

　　"Oh, wasn't it? And what was it, dear?"

　　"It was simply—it was nothing at all," Barbara protested, reddening. "Iwas just thinking that we have to have that rehearsal at the clubhousethis afternoon, and I was wondering if Jim would walk down there with menow, and see about getting the room ready——"

　　"Dad's got an eleven-o'clock operation, and I'm going to assist," saidJim.

　　"Did you forget that, dear?" Mrs. Toland asked.

　　"It's of no consequence," said Barbara, her voice suddenly thick withtears. Her hand trembled as she reached for a muffin.

　　"Keith, do you want to go down with us to the rehearsal this afternoon?"said Sally amiably to the little guest.

　　"Oh, I don't think the whole pack of us ought to go!" Ted protested inalarm. "You aren't going to let Janey and Con go, are you, Mother?"

　　"Oh, why not?" Mrs. Toland asked soothingly. Barbara here returned tothe discussion with a tragic: "Mother, they can't! It would lookperfectly awful!"

　　"Well, you don't own the yacht club, you know, Babbie," Ted suppliedsweetly.

　　"Well," said Barbara, rising, and speaking quickly in a low voice, "ofcourse the whole family, including Addie and Hee, can troop down thereif they want to, but I think it's too bad that I can't do a thing inthis family without being tagged by a bunch of kids!"

　　The door closed behind her; they could hear her running upstairs.

　　"Now she'll cry; she's getting to be an awful cry baby," said Janey,wide eyed, pleasurably excited.

　　"Doesn't seem very well, does she, Mummie? Not a bit like herself," saidthe head of the house, raising mild eyebrows.

　　"Now, never mind; she's just a little bit tired and excited over this'Amazon' thing," Mrs. Toland assured him cheerfully, "and she'll have alittle talk with Mother by and by, and be her sweet self again by lunchtime!"

　　The little episode was promptly blotted out by the rising tide oflaughter and conversation that was usual at breakfast. Miss Tolandpresently drifted into the study for some letter writing. Jim took adeep porch rocker, and carried off the morning papers. Richie, sittingat his father's left, squared about for one of the eager rambling talksof which he and his father never tired. The doctor's blue eyes twinkledover his theories of religion, science, history, poetry, and philosophy.Richie's lean, colourless face was bright with interest. Tedvolunteered, as she often volunteered of late, to go for the mail, andsauntered off under a red parasol, and Mrs. Toland slipped from thetable just in time to waylay her oldest son in the hall.

　　"Not going to catch the 9:40, Ned?" she asked.

　　"Sure pop I am!" He was sorry to be caught, and she saw it under hisbluff, pleasant manner.

　　"You couldn't take the 10:20 with Dad and Jim?"

　　"I've got to meet Reynolds at half-past ten, Mother," the boy saidpatiently.

　　"Reynolds!" she frowned. "Don't like my fine big boy to have friendslike that—" His eyes warned her. "Friends that aren't as fine and dearand good as he is!" she finished, her hands on his shoulders.

　　"Reynolds is all right," said Ned, bored, and looking coldly beyond her.

　　"And you'll be home for dinner, Ned?"

　　"Sure! Unless the Orpheum should be awfully long. In that case we mayget a bite somewhere."

　　"Try to be home for dinner," persisted the mother. And, as if to warrantthe claim on his consideration, she added: "I paid the Cutter billmyself, dear, and Dad will pay Jordan next month. I didn't say anythingabout Cutter, but he begged me to make you feel how wrong it is to letthese things run. You have a splendid allowance, Ned," she was almostapologetic, "and there's no necessity of running over it, dear!"

　　"Sure. I'm not going to do that again," Ned said gruffly, uncomfortably.

　　"That's right, dear! And you will—you'll try to be home for dinner?"

　　"Sure I'll try!" and Ned was gone, down through the roses and throughthe green gate.

　　Mrs. Toland watched him out of sight. Then she trotted off to Hee'sdomain. Sally straggled out into the garden, with Janey and Constanceand the small boy following after. There was great distress because thelittle girls were all for tennis, and Keith Borroughs frankly admittedthat he hated tennis.

　　The Tolands' rambling mansion was built upon so sharp a hill that thegarden beds were bulkheaded like terraces, and the paths were steep.Roses—delicious great white roses and the apricot-coloured San Rafaelrose—climbed everywhere, and hung in fragrant festoons from the low,scrub-oak trees that were scattered through the garden. Every vistaended with the blue bay, and the green gate at the garden's foot openeddirectly upon a roadway that hung like a shelf above the water.

　　Sally and the children gathered nasturtiums and cornflowers and fernsfor the house. The place had been woodland only a few years ago, theearth was rich with rotting leaves, and all sorts of lovely forestgrowths fringed the paths. Groups of young oaks and an occasional bay ormadrone tree broke up any suggestion of formal arrangement, and therewere still wild columbine and mission bells in the shady places.

　　Presently, to the immense satisfaction of her little sisters, Sallydismissed them for tennis, and carried the music-mad small boy off tothe old nursery, where he could bang away at an old piano to his heart'scontent, while she pasted pictures in her camera book, in a sunnywindow. Now and then she cast a look full of motherly indulgence at thelittle figure at the piano: the pale, earnest little face; the tumbledblack hair, the bony, big, unchildlike hands.

　　The morning slipped by, and afternoon came, to find Barbara welcomingthe arriving players at the yacht club, and looking her very prettiestin a gown of striped scarlet and white, and a white hat. Hello,Matty—Hello, Enid—Hello, Bobby—and did any one see Miss Page? Ah, howdo you do, Miss Page, awfully good of you to make it.

　　The girls dressed in a square room upstairs, lined with hooks andmirrors. Julia was not self-conscious, because, while different from thecrisp snowy whiteness of the other girls' linen, it did not occur to herthat her well-worn pink silk underwear, her ornate corset cover, and hershabby ruffled green silk skirt were anything but adequate.

　　Carter Hazzard was not in evidence to-day, to Julia's relief. Therehearsal dragged on and on, everybody thrown out because Miss DorothyChase, the girl who was to play Wilhelmina, failed to appear. Julia tookthe part, when it was finally decided to go on without Dorothy, but bythat time it was late, and the weary manager assured them that theremust be another rehearsal that evening. Hilariously the young peopleaccepted this decree, and Julia was carried home with the Tolands todinner.

　　Good-hearted Mrs. Toland could be nothing less than kind to any younggirl, and Julia's place at table was next to the kindly old doctor, whoonly saw an extremely pretty girl, and joked with her, and looked outfor her comfort in true fatherly fashion. Julia carried herself withgreat dignity, said very little, being in truth quite overawed andnervously anxious not to betray herself, and after the first frightenedhalf-hour she enjoyed the adventure thoroughly.

　　The evening rehearsal went much better, a final rehearsal was set forSunday, and Julia was driven to the ten o'clock boat in the stationomnibus, which smelled of leather and wet straw. She sat yawning in theempty ferry building, smiling over her recollection of dinner at theTolands': the laughter, the quarrels, the joyous confusion of voices.

　　Suddenly struck by the deserted silence of the waiting-room, Juliajumped up and went to the ticket office.

　　"Isn't there a train at 10:03?"

　　The station agent yawned, eyed her with pleasant indifference.

　　"No train now until 12:20, lady," said he.

　　For a moment Julia was staggered. Then she thought of the telephone.

　　A few minutes later she climbed out of the station omnibus again, thistime to be warmly welcomed into the Tolands' lamp-lighted drawing-room.Barbara and her mother were still at the yacht club, but the old doctorhimself was eagerly apologetic. Doctor Studdiford, Ned, and Richie addedtheir cheerful questions and regrets to the hospitable hubbub, andSally, who had been at the piano, singing Scotch ballads to her father,took possession of Julia with heartening and obvious pleasure.

　　Sally took her upstairs, lighted a small but exquisitely appointed guestroom, found a stiffly embroidered nightgown, a wrapper of dark-blueJapanese crepe, and a pair of straw slippers. Julia, inwardly tremblingwith excitement, was outwardly calm as she got ready for bed; she hungher clothes in a closet delightfully redolent of pine, and brushed andbraided her splendid hair. Sally whisked about on various errands, andpresently Mrs. Toland bustled in, brimful of horrified apologies andregrets, and Barbara dawdled after, rolling her belt and starched stock,generally unhooking and unbuttoning.

　　Perhaps the haughty Barbara found the round-eyed, golden-haired girl ina blue wrapper a little more companionable than the dreadful Miss Page,or perhaps she was a little too lonely to-night to be fastidious in herchoice of a confidante. At all events, she elected to wander in and outof Julia's room while she undressed, and presently sat on Julia's bed,and braided her dark hair. And if the whole adventure had excited Julia,she was doubly excited now, frantic to win Barbara's friendship,nervously afraid to try.

　　"You're an actress, Miss Page?" asked Barbara, scowling at herhairbrush.

　　"Will be, I guess! I've had dozens of chances to sign up already, butMama don't want me to be in any rush."

　　The other girl eyed her almost enviously.

　　"I wish I could do something—sometimes," she sighed. And she added,giving Julia a shamefaced grin, "I've got the blues to-night."

　　It was from this second that Julia dated her love for Barbara Toland. Adelicious sensation enveloped her—to be in Barbara's confidence—toknow that she was sometimes unhappy, too; to be lying in this fragrant,snowy bed, in this enchanting room—

　　"Well," said Barbara presently, jumping up, "you'll want some sleep. Ifyou hear us rushing about, at the screech of dawn to-morrow, it'sbecause some of us may go out with Dad in the Crow, if there's a breeze.Do you like yachting? Would you care to go?"

　　"I've never been," said Julia.

　　"Oh, well, then, you ought to!" Barbara said with round eyes. "I'll tellyou—I'll peep in here to-morrow, and if you're awake I'll give you acall!" she arranged, after a minute's frowning thought.

　　"I sleep awfully sound!" smiled Julia.

　　But she was awake when Barbara, true to her plan, peeped in at fiveo'clock the next morning, and presently, in a bluejacket's blouse andbrief blue skirt, with a white canvas hat on her head, and a boy's oldgray jersey buttoned loosely about her, followed muffled shapes throughthe cold house and into the wet, chilly garden. Richie was going, Sallyhad the gallant but shivering Jane and the dark-eyed Keith by the hand,and Barbara hung on her father's arm.

　　The waters of the bay were gray and cold; a sharp breeze swept theirsteely surfaces into fans of ruffled water. The little Crow rocked ather anchor, her ropes and brasswork beaded with dew. Julia, sitting indesperate terror upon a slanting upholstered ledge, felt her teethchatter, and wondered why she had come.

　　Barbara, Sally, Richie, and their father all fell to work, andpresently, a miracle to Julia, the little boat was running towardRichardson's Bay under a good breeze. Presently glorious sunlightenveloped them, flashed from a thousand windows on San Francisco hills,and struck to dazzling whiteness the breasts of the gulls that circledSausalito's piers. Everything sparkled and shone: the running blue waterthat slapped the Crow's side, the roofs of houses on the hillside, thegreen trees that nearly concealed them.

　　Growing every instant warmer and more content, Julia sat back and lether whole body and soul soak in the comfort and beauty of the hour. Hereyes roved sea and sky and encircling hills; she saw the last wisp ofmist rise and vanish from the stern silhouette of Tamalpais, and saw anearly ferryboat cut a wake of exquisite spreading lacework across thebay. And whenever her glance crossed Sally's, or the doctor's, orRichie's glance, she smiled like a happy child, and the Tolands smiledback.

　　They all rushed into the house, ravenous and happy, for a nine o'clockbreakfast, Julia so lovely, in her borrowed clothing and with herbright, loosened hair, that the young men of the family began, withoutexception, to "show off" for her benefit, as Theodora scornfullyexpressed it. And there was bacon and rolls and jam for every one, bluebowls of cereal, glass pitchers of yellow cream, smoking hot coffeealways ready to run in an amber stream from the spout of the big silverurn.

　　"And you must eat at least four waffles," said Ned, "or my father willnever let you come again! He has to drum up trade, you know—"

　　It was all delightful, not the less so because it was all tinged, forJulia, with a little current of something exquisitely painful; not envy,not regret, not resentment, a little of all three. This happy,care-free, sun-flooded life was not for her, how far, far, far from her,indeed! She was here only by accident, tolerated gayly for hospitality'ssake, her coming and going only an insignificant episode in their lives.Wistfully she watched Mrs. Toland tying little Constance's sash andstraightening her flower-crowned hat for church; wistfully eyed thecheerful, white-clad Chinese cook, grinning as he went to gatherlettuces; wistfully she stared across the brilliant garden from her deepporch chair. Barbara, in conference with a capped and aproned maid atthe end of a sunny corridor, Sally chatting with Richie, as shestraightened the scattered books on the library table, Ted dashing off apopular waltz with her head turned carelessly aside to watch theattentive Keith; all these to Julia were glimpses of a life so free, sofull, so invigorating as to fill her with hopeless longing andadmiration.

　　All her affectation and arrogance dropped from her before their simple,joyous naturalness. Julia had no feeling of wishing to impress them, toassert her own equality. Instead she genuinely wanted them to like her;she carried herself like the little girl she looked in her sailorblouse, like the little girl she was.

　　At twelve o'clock a final rehearsal of "The Amazons" was held at theyacht club, and to-day Julia entered into her part with zest, herenthusiasm really carrying the performance, as the appreciative "Matty"assured her. She had the misfortune to step on a ruffle of her borrowedwhite petticoat, at the very close of the last act, and slipped into thedressing-room to pin it up as soon as the curtain descended.

　　The dressing-room was deserted. Julia found a paper of pins, and,putting her foot up on a chair, began to repair the damage as well asshe could. The day was warm, and only wooden shutters screened the bigwindow that gave on one of the club's wide porches. Julia, hummingcontentedly to herself, presently became aware that there were chairsjust outside the window, and girls in the chairs—Barbara Toland andTed, and Miss Grinell and Miss Hazzard, and one or two Julia did notknow.

　　"Yes, Mother's a darling," Barbara was saying. "You know she didn't getthis up, Margaret; she had nothing to do with it, and yet she'spractically carrying the whole responsibility now! She'll be as nervousas we are to-morrow night!"

　　Julia pinned on serenely. It was in no code of hers to move out ofhearing.

　　"The only thing she really bucked at was when she found Miss Page at ourhouse last night," Ted said. "Mother's no snob—but I wish you couldhave seen her face!"

　　"Was she perfectly awful, Ted?" somebody asked.

　　"Who, Miss Page? No-o, she wasn't perfectly awful—yes, she was prettybad," Theodora admitted. "Wasn't she, Babbie?"

　　"Oh, well"—Barbara hesitated—"she's—of course she's terribly common.Just the second-rate actress type, don't you know?"

　　"Did she call your Mother 'ma'am'?" giggled Enid Hazzard. "Do youremember when she said 'Yes, ma'am?' And did she say 'eyether,' and'between you and I' again?" Something was added to this, but Julia didnot catch it. The girls laughed again.

　　"Listen," said Ted, "this is the richest yet! Last night Sally said toher, 'Breakfast's at nine, Miss Page; how do you like your bath?' andshe looked at Sally sort of surprised and said, 'I don't want abath!'"

　　"Oh, I don't think that's fair, Teddy," Barbara protested; "she's neverhad any advantages; it's a class difference, that's all. She's simplynot a lady; she never will be. You'd be the same in her place."

　　"Oh, I would not! I wouldn't mark my eyebrows and I wouldn't wear suchdirty clothes, and I wouldn't try to look twenty-five—" Ted began.

　　Again there was a quick commentary that Julia missed, and another laugh.Then Barbara said:

　　"Poor kid! And she looked so sweet in some of Sally's things."

　　Julia, still bent over her ruffle, did not move a muscle from theinstant she first heard her name until now, when the girls dismissed thesubject with a laugh. She felt as if the house were falling about her,as if every word were a smashing blow at her very soul. She felt sickand dizzy, cold and suddenly weak.

　　She walked across the room to the door, and stood there with her hand onthe knob, and said in a whisper: "Now, what shall I do? What shall Ido?"

　　At first she thought she would hide, then that she would run away. Thenshe knew what she must do: she opened the dressing-room door, and walkedunchallenged through the big auditorium. Groups of chattering peoplewere scattered about it; somebody was banging the piano; nobody paid theleast attention to Julia as she went down the stairs, and started towalk to the Toland house.

　　She was not thinking now. She only wanted to get away.

　　Nobody stopped her. The house was deserted. A maid put her head inJulia's door, and finding Julia dressing immediately apologized.

　　"I beg your pardon, Miss Page! I thought—"

　　"That's all right," said Julia quietly. She was very pale. "Will youtell Mrs. Toland that I had to take the two o'clock boat?"

　　"Yes'm. You won't be here for dinner?"

　　"No," said Julia, straining to make a belt meet.

　　"Could I bring you a cup of tea or a sandwich?"

　　"Oh, no, thank you!"

　　The maid was gone. Julia went down through the house quietly, a fewmoments later. Her breath came quick and short until she was fairly onthe boat, with Sausalito slipping farther and farther into thebackground. Even then her mind was awhirl, and fatigue and perhapshunger, too, made it impossible to think seriously. Far easier to leanback lazily in the sun, and watch the water slip by, and make no attemptto control the confused, chaotic thoughts that wheeled dreamily throughher brain. Now and then memory brought her to a sudden upright position,brought the hot colour to her face.

　　"I don't care!" Julia would say then, half aloud. "They're nothing to meand I'm nothing to them; and good riddance!"

　　May—but it was like a midsummer afternoon in San Francisco. A hot windblew across the ferry place; papers and chaff swept before it. Julia'sskirt was whisked about her knees, her hat was twisted viciously abouton her head. She caught a reflection of herself in a car window,dishevelled, her hat at an ugly angle, her nose reddened by the wind.

　　Mrs. Tarbury's house, when she got to it, presented its usual Sundayafternoon appearance. The window curtains were up at all angles in thedining-room, hot sunshine streamed through the fly-specked panes, thedraught from the open door drove a wild whirl of newspapers over theroom. Cigarette smoke hung heavy upon the air.

　　Julia peeped into the dark kitchen; the midday meal was over, and aJapanese boy was hopelessly and patiently attacking scattered heaps ofdishes and glassware. The girl was hungry, but the cooling wreck of aleg of mutton and the cold vegetables swimming in water did not appealto her, and she went slowly upstairs, helping herself in passing to nomore substantial luncheon than two soda crackers and a large greenpickle.

　　Mrs. Tarbury, dressed in a loose kimono, with her bare feet thrust intowell-worn Juliet slippers, was lying across her bed, in the pleasantleisure of Sunday afternoon, a Dramatic Supplement held in one fatringed hand, her head supported by her pillows in soiled muslin cases,and several satin and velvet cushions from a couch. In the room alsowere Connie Girard and Rose Ransome, who had a bowl of soapsuds andseveral scissors and orange-wood sticks on the table between them, andwere manicuring each other very fastidiously. A third actress, a youngEnglishwoman with a worn, hard face, rouged cheeks, and glittering eyes,was calling, with her little son, upon Mrs. Tarbury.

　　"Hello, darling!" said the lady of the house herself, as Julia came in.The girls gave her an affectionate welcome, and Julia was introduced tothe stranger.

　　"Mrs. Cloke is my real name," said the Englishwoman briskly. "But you'dknow me better as Alice Le Grange, I daresay. You'll have heard of mylittle sketches—the Mirror gave Mr. Cloke and I a whole page when firstwe came to this country, and we had elegant bookings—elegant. I'd mylittle flat in New York all furnished, and," she said to Mrs. Tarbury,"I was used to everything—the managers at home all knew me, and all,you know—" She laughed with some bitterness. "It does seem funny to beout here doing this," she added. "But there was the kiddy toconsider—and, as I told you, there was trouble!"

　　"Parties who used their influence to get 'em out!" said Miss Girarddarkly, in explanation, with a glance at Julia. "Favouritism—"

　　"And jealousy," added Alice Le Grange.

　　Julia was sympathetic, but not deeply impressed. She had heard thisstory in many forms before. She attracted the attention of little EricCloke, and showed him the pictures of the Katzenjammer Kids and FoxyGrandpa in the newspaper. Later she accompanied Rose and Connie to theirroom, put on loose clothing, and lay on her bed watching them dress.

　　The girls were to dine together, with two admirers, and urged Julia toask a third man, and come, too. Julia refused steadily; she was veryquiet and the others thought her tired.

　　She lay on her side, one hand falling idle over the edge of the bed, herserious, magnificent eyes moving idly from Connie's face to Rose's, androving over the room. Hot sunlight poured through the dirty windows andthe torn curtains of Nottingham lace, and flamed on the ugly wallpaperand the flawed mirrors. A thousand useless knickknacks made the roomhideous; every possible surface was strewn with garments large andsmall, each bureau was a confusion of pins and brushes, paste and powderboxes, silk stockings and dirty white gloves, cologne bottles andpowdered circles of discoloured chamois, hair kids and curls of falsehair, handkerchiefs and hat pins, cheap imitations of jewellery, cheapbits of lace, sidecombs, veils and belts and collars, and a hundredother things, all wound up in an indistinguishable mass. From thesesomewhat sodden heaps Connie and Rose cheerfully selected what theyneeded, leaning over constantly to inspect their faces closely in themirrors.

　　Julia watched them with a sudden, new, and almost terrifying distastegrowing in her heart. How dirty and shiftless and common—yes,common—these girls were! Julia felt sick with the force of therevelation. She saw Connie lace her shabby pink-brocade corset togetherwith a black shoestring; she saw Rose close with white thread a greathole in the heel of a black silk stocking. Their crimped hair nauseatedher, their rouge and powder and cologne. She could hardly listen inpatience to their careless and sometimes coarse chatter.

　　And when they were gone she still lay there, thinking—thinking—thinking! The sunlight crept lower and lower over the room's disorder;its last bright triangle was gone, twilight came, and the soft earlydarkness.

　　Mrs. Tarbury presently called Julia, in mellifluous accents, and thegirl pulled herself stiffly from the bed, and went blinking down to animprovised supper. They two were alone in the big house, and fell intointimate conversation over their sardines and coffee and jam, discussingthe characters of every person in the house with much attention totrivial detail. At nine o'clock some friends came in to see Mrs.Tarbury, and Julia went upstairs again.

　　She lighted the bedroom, and began idly to fold and straighten theclothes that were strewn about everywhere. But she very speedily gave upthe task: there were no closets to hang things in, and many things weretoo torn or dirty to be hung up, anyway! Julia went down one flight ofstairs to the nearest bathroom, in search of hot water, but both faucetsran cold, and she went upstairs again. She hunted through Connie'sbureau and Rose's for a fresh nightgown, but not finding one, had to puton the limp and torn garment one of the girls had loaned her a week ortwo before.

　　Now she sat down on the edge of her bed, vaguely discouraged. Tears cameto her eyes, she did not quite know why. She opened a novel, andcomposed herself to read, but could not become interested, and finallypushed up the window the two inches that the girls approved, turned outthe lights, and jumped into bed. She would want her beauty sleep for"The Amazons" to-morrow night. Julia had been fully determined, when shegot home, to abandon the amateur company, to fail them at the very hourof their performance, but a casual word from Connie had caused her tochange her mind.

　　"Don't you be a fool and get in Dutch with Artheris!" Connie had said,and upon sober reflection Julia had found the advice good.

　　But she got no beauty sleep that night. She lay hour after hour wakefuland wretched, the jumbled memories of the last twenty-four hoursslipping through her mind in ceaseless review: the green, swift-rushingwater, with gulls flying over it; the coffee pot reflecting a dozenjoyous young faces; the garden bright with roses—

　　And then, with sickening regularity, the clubhouse and the girls'voices—

　　How she hated them all, Julia said to herself, raising herself on oneelbow to punch her sodden pillow, and sending a hot, restless glancetoward the streak of bright light that forced its way in from a streetlamp. How selfish, how smug, how arrogant they were, with their dailybaths, and their chests full of fresh linen, and their assured speech!What had Sally and Theodora Toland ever done to warrant theirinsufferable conceit? Why should they have lovely parents and an idealhome, frocks and maids and delightful meals, while she, Julia, was bornto the dirt and sordidness of O'Farrell Street?

　　Barbara—but no, she couldn't hate Barbara! The memory of that moment ofconfidence last night still thrilled Julia to her heart's core. Barbarahad been kind to her in the matter of Carter Hazzard, had defended herto-day, in her careless, indifferent fashion. Julia's heart ached withfierce envy of Barbara, ached with fierce longing and admiration. Shetortured herself with a picture of the charm of Barbara's life: herwaking in the sunshine, her breakfast eaten between the old doctor andthe young, her hours at her pretty writing-desk, on the porch, at thepiano. Always dignified, always sweet and dainty, always adored.

　　Well, she, Julia, should be an actress, a great actress. But even as sheflung herself on her back and stared sternly up at the ceiling,resolving it, her heart failed her. It was a long road. Julia wasfifteen; she must count upon ten or fifteen years at least of slavery instock companies, of weeks spent in rushing from one cheap hotel toanother, of associating with just such women as Connie and Rose. No onethat she knew, in the profession, had bureaus full of ruffled freshlinen, had a sunshiny breakfast table with flowers on it—

　　Julia twisted about on her arm and began to cry. She cried for a longtime.

　　True, she could marry Mark, and Mark would be rich some day. But wouldBarbara Toland Studdiford—for Julia had married them as a matter ofcourse—ever stoop to notice Julia Rosenthal? No, she wouldn't marryMark.

　　Then there was her mother's home, over the saloon. Julia finally went tosleep planning, in cold-blooded childish fashion, that if her fatherdied, and left her mother a really substantial sum of money, she wouldpersuade Emeline to take a clean, bright little flat somewhere, andleave this neighbourhood forever.

　　"And we could keep a few boarders," thought Julia drowsily, "and I willlearn to cook, and have nice little ginghams, like Janey's—"

　　The amateur performance of "The Amazons" duly took place on thefollowing night, with a large and fashionable audience packing the oldGrand Opera House, and society reporters flitting from box to boxbetween the acts. Julia found the experience curiously flat. She had noopportunity to deliver to Barbara a withering little speech she hadprepared, and received no attention from any one. The performers wereexcited and nervous, each frankly bent upon scoring a personal andexclusive success, and immediately after the last act they swarmed outto greet friends in the house, and Babel ensued.

　　Walking soberly home with Mark at half-past eleven, with her cheque inher purse, Julia decided bitterly that she washed her hands of them all;she was done with San Francisco's smart set, she would never giveanother thought to a single one of them.