"Some friends of Genevieve's."

"Men?"

"I believe so."

"Two, I suppose."

Catharine nodded.

"Don't you know their names?"

"No. Genevieve says that one of them is crazy to meet me."

"Where did he see you?"

"At Winton's. I put on some evening gowns for his sister."

Athalie watched her pin on her hat, then held her coat for her.

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"They'll all bear watching," she remarked quietly. "If it's merely

society they want you know as well as I that they seek it in their own

circles, not in ours."

Catharine made no audible response. She began to re-pin her hat, then,

pettishly: "I wish I had a taxi to call for me so I needn't wear a

hat!"

"Why not wish for an automobile?" suggested Athalie, laughing. "Women

who have them don't wear hats to the theatre."

"It is tough to be poor!" insisted Catharine fiercely. "It drives me

almost frantic to see what I see in all those limousines,--and then

walk home, or take a car if I'm flush."

"How are you going to help it, dear?" inquired Athalie in that gently

humorous voice which usually subdued and shamed her sisters.

But Catharine only mumbled something rebellious, turned, stared at

herself in the glass, and walked quickly toward the door.

"As for me," she muttered. "I don't blame any girl--"

"What?"

But Catharine marched out with a twitch of her narrow skirts, still

muttering incoherencies.

Athalie, thoughtful, but not really disturbed, went into the empty

sitting-room, picked up the evening paper, glanced absently at the

head-lines, dropped it, and stood motionless in the centre of the

room, one narrow hand bracketed on her hip, the other pinching her

under lip.

For a few minutes she mused, then sighing, she walked into the

kitchenette, unhooked a blue-checked apron, rolled up her sleeves as

far as her white, rounded arms permitted, and started in on the

dishes.

Occasionally she whistled at her task--the clear, soft, melodious

whistle of a bullfinch--carolling some light, ephemeral air from the

"Review" at the Egyptian Garden.

When the crockery was done, dried and replaced, she retired to her

bedroom and turned her attention to her hands and nails, minutely

solicitous, always in dread of the effects of housework.

There was an array of bottles, vials, jars, lotions, creams, scents on

her bureau. She seated herself there and started her nightly grooming,

interrupting it only to exchange her street gown and shoes for a

dainty negligee and slippers.




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