And as Angelica observed them, first to see how tea was to be drunk, and later to ponder, a new idea struggled to life in her mind. It began to dawn upon her that there were grades among ladies, and varieties. Mrs. Russell was a lady, and Mrs. Geraldine was a lady; but they were of quite different sorts, and Polly’s sort was the better. So there wasn’t simply a set of rules to follow, or a definite standard to attain. There wasn’t even one absolutely correct manner. How was one to learn? How was one to imitate? "My Gawd!" she reflected. "There’s more to this than I thought!" CHAPTER EIGHT Perhaps, if Polly had imagined that she was serving as a model, or even that she was being shrewdly observed by Angelica, she would not have done what she did. She would have maintained the aristocratic imperturbability that had so impressed her companion, and she would have concealed her malice. For Polly had malice--that agreeable feminine malice, so much more attractive than a forgiving heart. She had a quiet relish for vengeance, and a long, long memory for affronts. For three years there had been war between herself and her mother-in-law, in which Polly had had to struggle desperately to avoid extermination. The ruthless selfishness of Mrs. Russell would have destroyed her, would have made her an instrument to serve her in her pleasure-hunt. She was not to be reasoned with, she was too heedless and indifferent to weigh consequences, too insolent to be hurt by defeat, too slippery for any sort of compromise. Polly had adopted a policy of implacability toward her. She let nothing slip, forgave nothing, forgot nothing. They were all at the dinner-table that evening--Eddie in evening dress, and the doctor also, in order to please his punctilious and severe son-in-law. Polly was an altogether pleasant object for contemplation in a brown voile frock, while Mrs. Russell had come forth in an astounding thing of orange and blue. It was shockingly expensive, very unbecoming, and badly put on. Taken with her straggling hair and a pair of dusty and shapeless black velvet slippers, it formed an exterior not likely to enlist her son’s support in the coming encounter. "Eddie!" said Polly. "What was that man’s name--the one we had for the day when the car was broken? Do you remember? He was such a good, careful driver, and his car was so nice and clean!" "Why do you want to know?" asked Eddie suspiciously. "I thought to-day I should have liked to get him." "What’s the matter with Courtland and your own car?" Eddie persisted sharply. "But it’s not my own car, Eddie." "Where was it?" "It was in use. I can’t expect to have it _all_ the time," she said sweetly. "You haven’t been out for seven or eight weeks, have you?" he demanded. "No; but still----” "That’s not exactly ‘all the time’!" His face had flushed. "Did you have the car, mother?" he asked. "Yes," she answered with perfect indifference.