Nobody. Warner Susan

inthis country."

      "But, my dear boy, we often have to use French or some other language, there are so many foreigners that one meets in society. And a ladymust know French at least. Does she know anything?"

      "I don't know," said Tom. "I have no doubt she does. I haven't triedher. How much, do you suppose, do girls in general know? girls withever so much money and family? And who cares how much they know? Onedoes not seek a lady's society for the purpose of being instructed."

      "One might, and get no harm," said the sister softly; but Tom flung outof the room. "Mamma, it is serious."

      "Do you think so?" asked the elder lady, now thrusting aside all herpapers.

      "I am sure of it. And if we do not do something – we shall all be sorryfor it."

      "What is this girl, Julia? Is she pretty?"

      Julia hesitated. "Yes," she said. "I suppose the men would call her so."

      "You don't?"

      "Well, yes, mamma; she is pretty, handsome, in a way; though she hasnot the least bit of style; not the least bit! She is rather peculiar; and I suppose with the men that is one of her attractions."

      "Peculiar how?" said the mother, looking anxious.

      "I cannot tell; it is indefinable. And yet it is very marked. Just thatwant of style makes her peculiar."

      "Awkward?"

      "No."

      "Not awkward. How then? Shy?"

      "No."

      "How then, Julia? What is she like?"

      "It is hard to tell in words what people are like. She is plainlydressed, but not badly; Mrs. Wishart would see to that; so it isn'texactly her dress that makes her want of style. She has a very goodfigure; uncommonly good. Then she has most beautiful hair, mamma; afull head of bright brown hair, that would be auburn if it were a shadeor two darker; and it is somewhat wavy and curly, and heaps itselfaround her head in a way that is like a picture. She don't dress it inthe fashion; I don't believe there is a hairpin in it, and I am surethere isn't a cushion, or anything; only this bright brown hair puffingand waving and curling itself together in some inexplicable way, thatwould be very pretty if it were not so altogether out of the way thateverybody else wears. Then there is a sweet, pretty face under it; but you can see at the first look that she was never born or brought upin New York or any other city, and knows just nothing about the world."

      "Dangerous!" said the mother, knitting her brows.

      "Yes; for just that sort of thing is taking to the men; and they don'tlook any further. And Tom above all. I tell you, he is smitten, mamma.And he goes to Mrs. Wishart's with a regularity which is appalling."

      "Tom takes things hard, too," said the mother.

      "Foolish boy!" was the sister's comment.

      "What can be done?"

      "I'll tell you, mamma. I've been thinking. Your health will never standthe March winds in New York. You must go somewhere."

      "Where?"

      "Florida, for instance?"

      "I should like it very well."

      "It would be better anyhow than to let Tom get hopelessly entangled."

      "Anything would be better than that."

      "And prevention is better than cure. You can't apply a cure, besides.When a man like Tom, or any man, once gets a thing of this sort in hishead, it is hopeless. He'll go through thick and thin, and take time torepent afterwards. Men are so stupid!"

      "Women sometimes."

      "Not I, mamma; if you mean me. I hope for the credit of yourdiscernment you don't."

      "Lent will begin soon," observed the elder lady presently.

      "Lent will not make any difference with Tom," returned the daughter.

      "And little parties are more dangerous than big ones."

      "What shall I do about the party we were going to give? I should beobliged to ask Mrs. Wishart."

      "I'll tell you, mamma," Julia said after a little thinking. "Let it bea luncheon party; and get Tom to go down into the country that day. Andthen go off to Florida, both of you."

      CHAPTER II

      AT BREAKFAST

      "How do you like New York, Lois? You have been here long enough tojudge of us now?"

      "Have I?"

      Mrs. Wishart and her guest being at breakfast, this question and answergo over the table. It is not exactly in New York, however. That is, itis within the city bounds, but not yet among the city buildings. Somelittle distance out of town, with green fields about it, and trees, andlawn sloping down to the river bank, and a view of the Jersey shore onthe other side. The breakfast room windows look out over this view, upon which the winter sun is shining; and green fields stand inbeautiful illumination, with patches of snow lying here and there. Snowis not on the lawn, however. Mrs. Wishart's is a handsome old house, not according to the latest fashion, either in itself or its fittingup; both are of a simpler style than anybody of any pretension wouldchoose now-a-days; but Mrs. Wishart has no need to make any pretension; her standing and her title to it are too well known. Moreover, thereare certain quain't witnesses to it all over, wherever you look. Nonebut one of such secured position would have such an old carpet on herfloor; and few but those of like antecedents could show such rare oldsilver on the board. The shawl that wraps the lady is Indian, and notworn for show; there are portraits on the walls that go back to arespectable English ancestry; there is precious old furniture about, that money could not buy; old and quain't and rich, and yet notstriking the eye; and the lady is served in the most observant style byone of those ancient house servants whose dignity is inseparablyconnected with the dignity of the house and springs from it. No newcomer to wealth and place can be served so. The whole air of everythingin the room is easy, refined, leisurely, assured, and comfortable. Thecoffee is capital; and the meal, simple enough, is very delicate in itsarrangement.

      Only the two ladies are at the table; one behind the coffee urn, andthe other near her. The mistress of the house has a sensible, agreeableface, and well-bred manner; the other lady is the one who has been sojealously discussed and described in another family. As Miss Juliadescribed her, there she sits, in a morning dress which lends herfigure no attraction whatever. And – her figure can do without it. Asthe question is asked her about New York, her eye goes over to theglittering western shore.

      "I like this a great deal better than the city," she added to herformer words.

      "O, of course, the brick and stone!" answered her hostess. "I did notmean that. I mean, how do you like us?"

      "Mrs. Wishart, I like you very much," said the girl with a certainsweet spirit.

      "Thank you! but I did not mean that either. Do you like no one but me?"

      "I do not know anybody else."

      "You have seen plenty of people."

      "I do not know them, though. Not a bit. One thing I do not like. Peopletalk so on the surface of things."

      "Do you want them to go deep in an evening party?"

      "It is not only in evening parties. If you want me to say what I think,Mrs. Wishart. It is the same always, if people come for morning calls,or if we go to them, or if we see them in the evening; people talkabout nothing; nothing they care about."

      "Nothing you care about."

      "They do not seem to care about it either."

      "Why do you suppose they talk it then?" Mrs. Wishart asked, amused.

      "It seems to be a form they must go through," Lois said, laughing alittle. "Perhaps they enjoy it, but they do not seem as if they did.And they laugh so incessantly, – some of them, – at what has no fun init. That seems to be a form too; but laughing for form's sake seems tome hard work."

      "My dear, do you want people to be always serious?"

      "How