PART TWO - CHAPTER III

by Kathleen Norris

　　Nevertheless, the young Studdifords, upon their return to San Francisco,entered heartily upon the social joys of the hour. Barbara had been onlywaiting their arrival to demurely announce her engagement, and Julia'sdelight immediately took the form of dinners and theatre parties for thehandsome Miss Toland and her fiance. A new and softened sweetness markedBarbara in these days; she was more gentle and more charming than shehad ever been before. Captain Edward Francis Humphry Gunther Fox was anofficer in the English army, a blond, silent man of forty, with kindeyes and a delightfully modulated voice. He had a comfortable privateincome, a "place" in Oxfordshire, an uncle, young and healthy to besure, but still a lord, and an older sister who had married a lord, sothat his credentials were unexceptionable, and Mrs. Toland was nearly ashappy as her daughter was.

　　"It's curious," said Barbara to Julia, in one of their first hoursalone, "but there is a distinction and an excitement about gettingengaged, and you enjoy it just as much at thirty as at twenty—perhapsmore. People—or persons, as Francis says—who have never paid me anyattention before, are flocking to the front now with presents and goodwishes, and some who never have seen Captain Fox congratulate me—itamounts to congratulation—as if any marriage were better than none!"

　　"Well, there is a something about marriage," Julia admitted; "you maynot have any reason for feeling so, but you do feel superior, 'way downin your secret heart! And yet, Babbie," and a little shadow darkened herbright face, "and yet, once you are married, you see a sort of—well, asort of uncompromising brightness about girlhood, too! When I go out toThe Alexander now, and remember my old busy days there, and walking tochapel with Aunt Sanna, in the fresh, early mornings—I don't know—itmakes me almost a little sad!"

　　"Don't speak of it," said Barbara. "When I think of leaving Dad, andhome, and going off to England, and having to make friends of awfulwomen with high cheek bones, and mats of crimps coming down to theireyebrows, it scares me to death!"

　　And both girls laughed gayly. They were having tea in Julia'sdrawing-room on a cold bright afternoon in May.

　　"I'll miss Dad most," pursued Barbara seriously. "Mother's so much withTed now, anyway." She frowned at the fire. "Mother's curious, Ju," sheadded presently. "Every one says she's an ideal mother, and so on, and Isuppose she is, but—"

　　"You're more like your father, anyway," Julia suggested in the pause.

　　"It's not only that," said Barbara slowly, "but Mother has never been insympathy with any one of us! Ned deceived her, Sally deceived her,Theodora went deliberately against her advice, and broke her heart, andCon and Jane don't really respect her opinion at all! I'm the oldest,her first born—"

　　"And she loves you dearly," Julia said soothingly.

　　"Used to Ju, when I was a baby. And loves me theoretically now. But shehas taken my not marrying to heart much more than the curious marriagesNed and the girls have made! Hints about old maids, and stories abouther own popularity as a girl, regardless of the fact that no one wantedme—"

　　"Oh, Babbie!"

　　"Well, no one did!" Barbara laughed a little dryly. "Why, not two monthsago," she went on, "that little sprig of a Paul Smith called on Con, andMother engineered me out of the room, and said something laughingly toRichie and Ted about not wanting to stand in Con's way, 'one old maidwas enough in a family!'"

　　"Maddening! Yes, I know," Julia said, laughing and shaking her head."I've heard her a hundred times!"

　　"Of course it's all love and kisses, now," Barbara added, "and Francisis a bold, big thief, and how can she give up her dear big girl—"

　　"Oh, Barbara, don't be bitter!"

　　"Well," Barbara flung her head back as if she tossed the subject aside,"I suppose I am bitter! And why you're not, Ju, I can't understand, foryou never had one tenth the chance I did!"

　　"No," Julia assented gravely, "I never did. If my mother had kept mewith her—and she could have done it—if she hadn't left my father—heloved me so—it would all have been different. Mothers are strange,Babby, they have so much power—or seem to! It seems to me that onecould do so much to straighten things out for the poor little babybrains; this is worth while, and this isn't worth while, and so on!Suppose"—Julia poured herself a fresh cup of tea, and leaned backcomfortably in her chair—"suppose you had young daughters, Bab," saidshe, "what would you do, differently from your mother, I mean?"

　　"Oh, I don't know!" Barbara said, "only it seems funny that motherscan't help their daughters more. Half my life is lived now, probably,yet Mother goes right on theorizing, she—she doesn't get down to facts,somehow! I don't know—"

　　"It all comes down to this," Julia said briskly, as Barbara's voicetrailed into silence, "sitting around and waiting for some one to askher to marry him is not a sufficiently absorbing life work for theaverage young woman!"

　　"She isn't expected to do anything else," Barbara added, "except—attract. And it isn't as if she could be deciding in her own mind aboutit; the decision is in his mind: if he chooses he can ask her; if hedoesn't, all right! It's a shame—it's a shame, I say, not to give her amore dignified existence than that!"

　　"Yes, but, Bab, your mother couldn't have put you into a shop to sellribbons, or made a telephone girl of you!"

　　"No; my brothers didn't sell ribbons, or go on a telephone board,either. But I don't see why I shouldn't have studied medicine, like Jimand Richie, or gone into the office at the works in Yolo City, likeNed."

　　"Yes, but, Babby, you've no leaning toward medicine!"

　　"Well, then, something else, just as Jim would have done something else,in that case! Office hours and responsibility, and meeting of men insome other than a social way. You and I have somehow dragged a solutionout of it, Julie: we are happy in spite of all the blundering andstumbling, but I've not got my Mother to thank for it, and neither haveyou!"

　　"No, neither have I!" Julia said, with a long sigh, and for a fewmoments they both watched the coals in silence. The room was quite darknow; the firelight winked like a drowsy eye; here and there the gold ofa picture frame or the smooth curve of a bit of copper or brasswaretwinkled. The windows showed opaque squares of dull gray; elsewhere wasonly heavy shadow, except where Barbara's white gown made a spot of dullrelief in the gloom, and Julia's slipper buckles caught the light. Agreat jar of lilacs, somewhere in the room, sent out a subtle anddelicious scent.

　　"Funny world, isn't it, Julie?"

　　"Oh, funny!" Julia put out her hand, and met Barbara's, and theirfingers pressed. "Nothing better in it, Barbara, than a friend likeyou!" she said affectionately.

　　"That's what I was thinking," said Barbara.

　　The Studdifords went to San Mateo after the wedding, and Julia, who hadtaken herself seriously in hand, entered upon the social life of thesummer with a perfectly simulated zest. She rode and drove, played golfand tennis and polo, gossiped and spent hours at bridge, she wenttirelessly from luncheon to tea, from dinner to supper party, and whenJim was detained in town, she went without him; a little piece ofself-reliance that pleased him very much. If society was not extremelypopular with Julia, Julia was very popular with society; her demurebeauty made her conspicuous wherever she went, and in July, prominent insome theatricals at the clubhouse, she earned all honours before her.

　　Julia found the theatricals perilously delightful; the grease paint andthe ornate costume seemed like old friends; she was intoxicated andenchanted by the applause. For several days after her most successfulperformance she was thoughtful: what if she had never joined the"Amazon" caste, never gone to Sausalito, followed naturally in thefootsteps of Connie Girard and Rose Ransome? She might have been a greatactress; she would have been a great beauty.

　　San Mateo, frankly, bored her, although she could not but admire thebeautiful old place, the lovely homes set in enchanting old gardens, thelawns and drives stretching under an endless vista of superb oaks.There, alone with Jim, in a little cottage—ah, there would have beennothing boring about that!

　　But the Hardesty cottage never seemed like home to her, they had rentedthe big, shingled brown house for only three months, and Jim was anxiousthat she should not tire herself with altering the arrangement offurniture and curtains for so casual a tenancy. The Hardesty's pictureslooked down from the wall, their chairs were unfriendly, their booksunder lock and key. Not a lamp, not a cup or saucer was familiar toJulia; she felt uncomfortable in giving dinner parties with "H" on thesilver knives and forks; she never liked the look of the Hardesty linen.Life seemed unreal in the "Cottage"; she seemed to be pushed further andfurther away from reassuring contact with the homely realities of loveand companionship; chattering people were always about her, pianoplayerswere rippling out the waltz from "The Merry Widow," ice was clinking incocktail shakers, the air was scented with cigarettes, with the powderand perfumery of women. She and Jim dined alone not oftener than once aweek, and their dinner was never finished before friendly feet crispedon the gravel curve of the drive, and friendly invaders appeared toinvite them to do something amusing: to play cards, to take long spinsin motor cars, or to spend an idle hour or two at the club. Sometimesthey were separated, and Julia would come in, chilled and tired after along drive, to find Jim ahead of her, already sound asleep. Sometimesshe left him smoking with some casual guest, and fell asleep long beforethe voices downstairs subsided. Even if they went upstairs together,both were tired; there was neither time nor inclination for confidences,for long and leisurely talk.

　　"Happy?" Jim said to his wife one day, when Julia, looking the pictureof happiness, had come downstairs to join him for some expedition.

　　"Happy enough," Julia said, with her grave smile. She took the deepwicker chair next his, on the porch, and sat looking down the curve ofthe drive to the roadway beyond a screen of trees.

　　"Heavenly afternoon," she said. "Just what are we doing?"

　　"Well, as near as I got it from Greg," Jim informed her a littleuncertainly, "we go first to his place, and then split up into aboutthree cars there; Mrs. Peter and Mrs. Billings will take the eats, Peterwill have a whole hamper of cocktails and things, and we go up to theridge for a sort of English nursery tea, I think."

　　"Doing it all ourselves?" Julia suggested, brightening.

　　"Well, practically. Although Greg's cook is going ahead with a couple ofmaids in the Peters' car. They're going to broil trout or something;anyway, I know Greg has been having fits about seeing that enough platesgo, and so on. I know Paula Billings is taking something frozen—"

　　"Oh, Lord, what a fuss and what a mess!" Julia said ungratefully.

　　"Well, you know how the Peters always do things. And then, after tea, ifthis glorious weather holds, we'll send the maids and the hampers home,and all go on down to Fernand's."

　　"Fernand's! Forty miles, Jim?"

　　"Oh, why not? If we're having a good time?"

　　"Well, I hope Peter Vane and Alan Gregory keep sober, that's all!" Juliasaid. "The ride will be lovely, and it's a wonderful day. But Minna Vanealways bores me so!"

　　"Why, you little cat!" Jim laughed, catching her hand as it hung looseover the arm of her chair.

　　"They've no brains," complained Julia seriously; "they wereborn doing this sort of thing, they think they like it!Buying—buying—buying—eating—dancing—rushing—rushing—rushing! It'sno life at all! I'd rather pack a heavy basket, and lug it over a hothill, and carry water half a mile, when I picnic, instead of rolling afew miles in a motor car, and then sitting on a nice camp-chair, andhaving a maid to pass me salads and ices and toast and broiled trout!"

　　"Well, if you would, I wouldn't!" Jim said good-naturedly.

　　"I wasn't born to this," Julia added thoughtfully; "my life has alwaysbeen full of real things; perhaps that's the trouble. I think of all thethings that aren't going right in the world, and I can't just turn myback on them, like a child—I get thinking of poor little clerks whosewives have consumption—"

　　"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Jim protested frowningly, biting the end fromhis cigar with a clip of firm white teeth.

　　"It isn't as if I had never been poor," Julia pursued uncertainly. "Iknow that there are times when a new gown or a paid bill actually wouldaffect a girl's whole life! I think of those poor little girls at St.Anne's—"

　　"I would like to suggest," Jim said incisively, "that the less you letyour mind run on those little girls from St. Anne's, the better for you!If you have no consideration for my feelings in this matter, Julie, foryour own I should think you would consider such topics absolutely—well,absolutely in poor taste!"

　　Silence. Jim puffed on his cigar. Julia sat without stirring, feelingthat every drop of blood in her body had rushed to her head. The musclesof her temples and throat ached, her eyes saw only a green-and-golddazzle, her wet little hands gripped the arms of her chair.

　　"It is all very well to criticise these people," pursued Jimsententiously, after a long silence, "although they have all beenkindness and graciousness itself to you! They may be shallow, they maybe silly; I don't hold any brief for Minna Vane and Paula Billings. ButI know that Minna is on the Hospital Board, and Paula a mightykind-hearted, good little woman, and they don't sit around pulling longfaces, and wishing they were living south of Market Street!"

　　Julia sat perfectly still. She could not have battled with the lump inher throat if life had depended upon her speaking. She felt her cheststrain with a terrible rush of sobbing, but she held herself stiffly,and only prayed that her tears might be kept back until she was alone.

　　"Hello! Here's Greg," Jim said cheerfully, after another silence. Andhere, truly, was Alan Gregory, a red-faced, smooth-shaven young man,already slightly hilarious and odorous of drink, and very gallant tobeautiful Mrs. Studdiford. A great silky veil must be tied over Julia'shat; sure she was warm enough? Might be late, might get cold, you know.

　　"Shall I get you your white coat, dear?" Jim asked solicitously.

　　"Oh, no, thank you, Jim!"

　　Then they were off, and Julia told herself that men and their wivesoften quarrelled this way; it was a common enough thing to have somewoman announce, with a casual laugh, that she and her husband had had a"terrible scene," and "weren't speaking." Only, with Jim it seemed sodifferent! It seemed so direfully, so hopelessly wrong!

　　She felt a hypocrite when they joined the others, and when she presentlyfound herself laughing and talking with them all, even with Jim. Andthrough the jolly afternoon and noisy evening she found herself watchingher husband, when she could do so unobserved, with gravely analyticaleyes. No barbed sentence of his could long affect her, for Julia hadpondered and prayed too long over this matter to find any fresh distressin a reminder of it. Her natural simple honesty very soon adjusted theoutraged sensibilities. But Jim could hurt himself with his wife, andthis afternoon he had done so. Unconsciously Julia said to herself, overand over, "Oh, he should not have said that! That was not kind!"

　　Mrs. Vane had a great favour to ask the men of the party to-night. Sheproffered it somewhat doubtfully, like a spoiled child who is almostsure of being denied, yet risks its little charms in one more entreaty.She and Paula, yes, and Mrs. Jerome, and little Julia—wasn't that so,Julia?—wanted to see a roadhouse. No—no—no—not the sort of placewhere nice women went, but a regular roadhouse—oh, please, please,please! They had their veils to tie over their faces, and they wouldkeep very unobtrusively in the background, and there was a man apieceand two men over to protect them.

　　"All the girls in town are doing it!" argued Mrs. Vane, "and they sayit's perfectly killing! Dancing, you know, and singing. You have to keepyour veil down, of course! Betty said they'd been three times!"

　　"Nothing doing," Jim said good-naturedly, shaking his head.

　　"Oh, now, don't say that, Doctor!" Mrs. Vane commanded animatedly; "it'stoo mean! Well, if you couldn't take us to the very worst, where couldyou take us—Hunter's?"

　　"Hunter's!" the three men echoed, laughing and exchanging glances.

　　"Well, where then?" the lady pursued.

　　"Look here, Min," said her husband uneasily, "there's nothing to it. Andyou girls might get insulted and mixed into something—"

　　"Oh, divine!" Mrs. Billings said; "now I will go!"

　　"White's, huh, Jim?" Greg suggested tentatively.

　　"White's?" Jim considered it, shook his head. "Nothing doing there,anyway!" was his verdict.

　　"Larry's, where the pretty window boxes are," suggested Mrs. Vane,hopeful eyes upon the judges. "Come on! Oh, come on! You see such flossyladies getting out of motor cars in front of Larry's!"

　　"There's this about Larry's," Mr. Billings contributed; "we could getone of those side places, and then, if things got too hot, just step outon to the porch, d'ye see, and get the girls away with no fuss at all."

　　"That's so," Jim conceded; "but I'll be darned if I know why they wantto do it. However—"

　　"However, you're all angels!" sang Mrs. Vane, and catching Julia aboutthe waist, she began to waltz upon the pleasant meadow grass where theyhad just had their high tea. "Come on, everybody! We won't be atFernand's until nearly night, then dinner, and then Larry's!"

　　"Mind now," growled one of the somewhat unwilling escort, "you girlskeep your veils down. Nix on the front-page story to-morrow!"

　　"Oh, we'll behave!" Mrs. Billings assured him. And slipping anaffectionate arm about Julia's waist, as they walked to the motor cars,she murmured: "My dear, there isn't one decent woman in the place! Isn'tthis fun!"

　　Julia did not answer. She got into the car and settled herself for therun; so much of the day at least would be pleasant. It was the close ofa lovely summer afternoon, the long shadows of the trees lay ahead ofthem on the road, the sky was palest blue and palest pink, a flock ofwhite baby clouds lay low against the eastern horizon. The warm air borethe clean good scent of wilting grass and hot pine sap. The car rolledalong smoothly, its motion stirring the still air into a breeze. Mr.Billings, sitting next to Julia, began an interested disquisition uponthe difficulties of breeding genuine, bat-eared, French bulldogs. Juliascarcely heard him, but she nodded now and then, and now and then herblue eyes met his; once she gratified him with a dreamy smile. Thisquite satisfied Morgan Billings, to whom it never occurred that Julia'sthoughts might be on the beauties of the rolling landscape, and hersmile for the first star that came prickling through the soft twilight.

　　And after a while some aching need of her soul grew less urgent, andsome of the wistfulness left her face. She forgot the ideals that hadcome with her into her married life, and crushed down the convictionthat Jim, like all men, liked his wife to slip into the kitchen andconcoct some little sweet for his supper, even with an artist like FooTing at his command. She realized that when she declined old Mrs.Chickering's luncheon invitation for the mere pleasure of rushing hometo have lunch with Jim, her only reward might be a disapproving: "MyLord! Julia, I hope you didn't offend Mrs. Chickering! She's been sodecent to us!"

　　It was as if Julia, offering high interest on her marriage bond, had atlast learned that one tenth of what she would pay would satisfy Jim.Feeling as she did that no demonstration on his part, no inclination tomonopolize her, would do more than satisfy her longing to be all in allto him, it was not an easy lesson. For a while she could not believethat he knew his own happiness in the matter, and a dispassionateonlooker might have found infinitely pathetic the experimental temeritywith which she told him that this invitation had been accepted, thissocial obligation incurred, this empty Sunday filled to overflowing withengagements.

　　And now Jim approved, and Julia had to hide in the depth of her hurtsoul the fact that she had never dreamed he could approve. Howevertired, he liked to come home to the necessity of immediately assumingevening dress, and going out into the night again. He and Julia held acheerful conversation between their dressing-rooms as they dressed;later they chattered eagerly enough in the limousine, Jim enthusiasticover his wife's gown, and risking a kiss on her bare shoulder when thecar turned down a dark street. Jim, across a brilliant table, in astrange house, did not seem to Julia to belong to her at all; but it wasalmost as if he found his wife more fascinating when the eyes ofoutsiders were upon her, and admired Julia in a ballroom more than hedid when they had the library and the lamplight to themselves, at home.

　　They would come home together late and silent. Ellie would come in tohelp her lovely mistress out of the spangled gown, to lift theglittering band from her bright hair. And because of Ellie, and becauseJim usually was dressed and gone before she was up in the morning, Juliahad a room to herself now. She would have much preferred to breakfastwith her lord, but Jim himself forbade it.

　　"No, no, no, Ju! It's not necessary, and you're much better off in bed.That's the time for you to get a little extra rest. No human being canstand the whole season without making some rest up somehow! You'll seethe girls begin to drop with nervous prostration in January; Barbaraused to lose twenty pounds every winter. And I won't have you gettingpale. Just take things easy in the morning, and sleep as late as youcan!"

　　Julia accepted the verdict mildly. With the opening of her second winterin San Francisco's most exclusive set, she had tried to analyze thewhole situation, honestly putting her prejudices on one side, andattempting to get her husband's point of view. It was the harder becauseshe had hoped to be to Jim just what Kennedy Marbury was to Anthony,united by a thousand needs, little and big, by the memory of a thousandlittle comedies and tragedies. Kennedy, who worried about bills and whodreaded the coming of the new baby, could stop making a pie toadminister punishment and a lecture to her oldest son, stop again toanswer the telephone, stop again to kiss her daughter's little bumpednose, and yet find in her tired soul and body enough love and energy toput a pastry "A. M." on the top of her pie, to amuse the head of thehouse when he should cut into it that night.

　　But this mixture of the ridiculous and the sublime was not for Julia.And just as Kennedy had adjusted herself to the life of a poor man'swife, so Julia must adjust herself to her own so different destiny.

　　And adjust herself she did. Nobody dreamed of the thoughts that went onbehind the beautiful blue eyes, nobody found little Mrs. Studdifordanything but charming. With that steadfast, serious resolution that hadmarked her all her life, Julia set herself to the study of gowns, ofdinners, of small talk. She kept a slim little brown Social Register onher dressing-table, and pored over it at odd moments; she listenedattentively to the chatter that went on all about her. She drewinfinitely less satisfaction from the physical evidences of hersuccess—her beauty, her wealth, her handsome husband, and herpopularity—than any one of the women who envied her might have done,yet she did draw some satisfaction, loved her pretty gowns, the freedomof bared white neck and shoulders, the atmosphere of perfumeddrawing-rooms and glittering dinner tables. She wrote long letters toBarbara, was a devoted godmother to Theodora Carleton's tiny son, lovedto have Miss Toland with her for an occasional visit, and perhaps once amonth went over to Sausalito, to spoil the old doctor with heraffectionate attentions, hold long conferences with their mother on thesubject of the girls' love affairs, and fall into deep talks withRichie—perhaps the happiest talks in her life, for Richie, whose mindand body had undergone for long years the exquisite discipline of pain,was delightfully unexpected in his views, and his whole lean, ungainlyframe vibrated with the eager joy of expressing them.

　　Perhaps once a month, too, Julia went to see her own mother, calls whichalways left her definitely depressed. Emeline was becoming more and morecrippled with rheumatism, the old grandmother was now the more brisk ofthe two. May's two younger girls, Muriel and Geraldine, were livingthere now, as Marguerite and Evelyn had done; awkward, dark, heavy-facedgirls who attended the High School. Julia's astonishing rise in life hadnecessarily affected her relatives, but much less, she realized in uttersickness of spirit, than might have been imagined. She and Jim werepaying for the schooling of two of May's boys, and a substantial check,sent to her mother monthly, supposedly covered the main expenses of theentire household. Besides this, Chess was working, and paying his mothersomething every week for board.

　　It had been Julia's first confident plan to move the family from theMission entirely. There were lovely roomy flats in the Western Addition,or there were sunny houses out toward the end of Sutter Street, whereher mother and grandmother would be infinitely more comfortable and moreaccessible. She was stunned when her grandmother flatly refused. Evenher mother's approval of the plan was singularly wavering and halfhearted. Mrs. Cox argued shrilly that they were poor folks, and poorfolks were better off not trapesing all over the city, and Emeline addedthat Ma would feel lost without her backyard and her neighbours, to saynothing of the privilege of bundling up in a flat black bonnet and brownshawl, hot weather or cold, and trotting off to St. Charles's Church atall hours of the day and night.

　　"I don't care, Julie," Mrs. Page made her daughter exquisitelyuncomfortable by saying very formally, "but there's no girl in God'sworld that wouldn't think of asking her mother to stay with her for awhile—till things got settled, anyway. You haven't done it!"

　　"Well, I'll tell you, Mama—" Julia began, but Emeline interrupted her.

　　"You haven't done it, Julie, and let me tell you right now, it looksqueer. I'm not the one that says it; every one says it. I don't want toforce myself where I'm not—"

　　"But, Mama dear, we're only at the hotel now!" Julia protested, feelinga hypocrite.

　　"I see," said Emeline, "and I'm not good enough, of course. I couldn'tmeet your friends, of course!" She laughed heartily. "That's good!" shesaid appreciatively.

　　Julia used to flush angrily under these withering comments, at first;later, her poor little mother's attitude filled her only with a greatpity. For Emeline was suffering a great deal now, and Julia longed to beable to take her with her to the Pacific Avenue house, if only to provethat its empty splendour held no particular advantages over the life onShotwell Street, for Emeline. She was definitely better off in hermother's warm kitchen, gossiping and idling her days away, than shewould have been limping aimlessly about in Julia's house, and catchingglimpses of Julia only between the many claims of the daughter's day.

　　More than this, Jim would not hear of such a visit; it never even cameto a discussion between husband and wife; he would have been frankly asmuch surprised as horrified at the idea. So Julia did what was left toher, for her mother: listened patiently to long complaints, paid bills,and supplemented Jim's generous cheque with many a gold piece pressedinto her mother's hand or slipped into her grandmother's dreadful oldshopping-bag. She carried off her young cousins to equip them withwinter suits and sensible shoes, aware all the while that theirhigh-heeled slippers and flimsy, cheap silk dresses, the bangles thatthey slipped over dirty little hands, and the fancy combs they pushedinto their untidy hair, were infinitely more prized by them.

　　The Shotwell Street house was still close and stuffy, the bedrooms asdark and horrible as Julia remembered them, and no financial aid didmore than temporarily soften the family's settled opinion that poorfolks were poor folks, and predestined to money trouble. Julia knew thatwhen the clothes she bought her cousins grew dirty they would not becleaned; she knew that her grandmother had never taken a tub bath in herlife and rather scorned the takers of tub baths; she knew that such athing as the weekly washing of clothes, the transformation of dirtylinen into piles of fragrant whiteness, never took place in the ShotwellStreet house. Mrs. Cox indeed liked to keep a tub full of gray sudsstanding in the kitchen, and occasionally souse in it one of her calicowrappers, or a shirt waist belonging to the girls. These would be driedon a rope stretched across the kitchen, and sooner or later pressed withone of the sad irons that Julia remembered as far back as she rememberedanything; rough-looking old irons, one with a broken handle, all withthe figure seven stamped upon them with a mould. Mrs. Cox had severalironholders drifting about the kitchen, folds of dark cloth that hadbeen so often wet and singed that the covering had split, and the foldednewspaper inside showed its burned edges, but she never could find onewhen she wanted it, and usually improvised a new one from a grocery bagor the folds of her apron, and so burned her veined old knotted hands.

　　Julia came soon to see that her actual presence did them small good, anddid herself real harm, and so, somewhat thankfully, began to confine herattentions more and more to mere financial assistance. She presentlyarranged for the best of medical care for her mother, even for ahospital stay, but her attitude grew more and more that of thenoncommittal outsider, who helps without argument and disapproveswithout comment. Evelyn had made a great success of her dressmaking, butsuch aid as she could give must be given her sister, for Marguerite'searly and ill-considered marriage had come to the usual point when, withan unreliable husband, constantly arriving and badly managed babies, andbitter poverty and want, she found herself much in the position of hermother, twenty years before. May was still living in Oakland, widowed.Her two sons were at home and working, and with a small income fromrented rooms as well, the three and her youngest daughter, Regina,somehow managed to maintain the dreary cottage in which most of thechildren were born.

　　"They all give me a great big pain!" Evelyn said one day frankly, whenJulia was at Madame Carroll's for a fitting, and the cousins—onestanding in her French hat and exquisite underlinen, and the otherkneeling, her gown severely black, big scissors in hand, and apincushion dangling at her breast—were discussing the family. "Gran'maisn't so bad, because she's old, but Aunt Emeline and Mama have a rightto get next to themselves! Mama had a fit because I wouldn't take a flatover here, and have her and Regina with me; well, I could do itperfectly well; it isn't the money!" Evelyn stood up, took seven pinsseparately and rapidly from her mouth, and inserted them in the flimsylining that dangled about Julia's arm. "You want this tight, but not tootight, don't you, Julie?" said she. "That can come in a little, still.No," she resumed aggrievedly, "but I board at a nice place on Fultonstreet; the Lancasters, the people that keep it, are just lovely. Mrs.Lancaster is so motherly and the girls are so jolly; my wash costs me adollar a week; I belong to the library; I've got a lovely room; I go tothe theatre when I want to; I buy the clothes I like, and why should Iworry? I know the way Mama keeps house, and I've had enough of it!"

　　"It's awfully hard," Julia mused, "Marguerite's just doing the samething over again. It's just discouraging!"

　　"Well, you got out of it, and I got out of it," Evelyn said briskly,"and they call it our luck! Luck? There ain't any such thing," she wenton indignantly. "I'm going to New York for Madame next year—me, to NewYork, if you please, and stay at a good hotel, and put more than twentythousand dollars into materials and imported wraps and scarfs and soon—is there any luck to that? There's ten years' slavery, that's whatthere is! How much do you suppose you'd have married Jim Studdiford ifyou hadn't kept yourself a little above the crowd, and worked away atthe settlement house for years and years?" she demanded. "I can put alittle hook in here, Ju, where the lace comes, to keep that in place foryou!" she added, more quietly.

　　"Well, it's true!" Julia said, sighing. She looked with real admirationat the capable, black-clad figure, the clear-skinned, black-eyed face ofMadame Carroll's chief assistant. "Why don't you ever come and havelunch with me, Evelyn?" she demanded affectionately.

　　"Oh, Lord, dearie!" Evelyn said, in her most professional way, as shepencilled a list of young Mrs. Studdiford's proportions on a printedcard, "this season Madame has our lunches, and even our dinners, sentin—simply one rush! But some time I'd love to."

　　"You like your work, don't you, Evelyn?" Julia said curiously.

　　"You go tell Madame I'm ready for Mrs. Addison," Evelyn said capably toa small black-clad girl who answered her bell, "and then carry this toMinnie and tell her it's rush—don't drop the pins out. I love my work,"she added, when she and Julia were alone again; "I'm crazy about it! Thegirls here are awfully nice, and some of the customers treat me simplyswell—most of them do. This way, Julia. Christmas time we get morepresents than you could shake a stick at!" said Evelyn, opening a door."Good afternoon, Mrs. Addison, I'm all ready for you."

　　"That's a good girl!" the woman who was waiting in Carroll's handsomeparlour said appreciatively; she recognized Julia. "Well, how do you do,Mrs. Studdiford?" she smiled, "so sorry not to see you on Saturday, youbad little thing!"

　　Julia gave her excuse. "You know Evelyn here is my cousin?" she said, inher quiet but uncompromising way, as she hooked her sables together.

　　"About eleven times removed!" Evelyn said cheerfully. "Right in here,please, Mrs. Addison! At the same time to-morrow, Mrs. Studdiford. Thankyou, good-night."

　　"Good-night!" Julia said, smiling. For some reason she could not fathom,Evelyn never seemed willing to claim the full relationship; alwaysassumed it to be but a hazy and distant connection. It was as if in hersuccess the modiste wished to recognize no element but her own worth; nowealthy or influential relative could claim to have helped her! Juliaalways left her with a certain warmth at her heart. It was good to comein contact now and then with such self-confidence, such capability, suchprosperity. "I could almost envy Evelyn!" thought Julia, spinning homein the twilight.