"You poor little goose," said Aubrey, "don't you know they have it all arranged, and that Featherstone won't go beyond earshot of the telephone until he receives your invitation?" To be sure! I had forgotten Bee's methods. Of course it turned out as Aubrey predicted--it always does. Captain Featherstone accepted with suspicious alacrity. For three days Bee was polite, and I, who am most easily gulled for a person who looks as intelligent as I do, was pluming myself upon the fact that our modest mode of living was proving agreeable to Bee's jaded European palate. I wondered if she had noticed my housekeeping. She had not expressed herself in any way, but I wondered if she had observed how scrupulously neat everything was, that there was no lint on the floors and what bully things we had to eat. I was the more eager to know what she thought from the fact that most of my friends had not hesitated to say that I couldn't keep house, and the Angel would starve. And once when I wrote home for a recipe for tomato soup and one of the girls heard of it, she actually sent me this insulting telegram: "Tomato soup! You! O Lord!" Which just shows you. So, on the third day, on seeing Bee cast a critical look around, I said, unable to wait another minute for the praises I was sure would come: "Well, what do you think of us anyway?" Then I leaned back with the thought in my mind, "Now here is where, as Jimmie would say, I get a bunch of hot air." Bee wheeled around on me eagerly, and I smiled in anticipation. "Do you really want to know?" "Of course I do!" I cried, impatiently. "You asked me, you know," she said, warningly. "I know I did. Go ahead. Tell me." "Tell you what I think of you?" said Bee, looking me over as if to find a sensitive spot for her blow to fall on. "Well, I think that you are the most hopelessly _bourgeoise_ mortal I ever knew." I sat up. "_Bourgeois_!" I exploded. "From a woman with social possibilities," she went on, "you have degenerated into a mere housewife. And you and Aubrey have become positively--" She paused in order to be more impressive. "Domestic!" she hissed at last with such vehemence that I bit my tongue. As I put in no defence she went on, gathering momentum as she talked. "When I heard that you had come to live in one of the smartest towns along the Hudson, where millionaires are as thick as blackberries, I said to myself: 'Now they will rise to the occasion.' But have you? No! I come, fresh from those gorgeous house-parties in England, to find you and Aubrey no better than farmers and--satisfied with yourselves! If you could only get my point of view and see _how_ satisfied you are!" "We are happy,--that's what it is!" I interpolated, feebly. "Then be miserable, but progress!" cried Bee. "Such a state of social stagnation as you exist in is a sin against yours and Aubrey's talents." I was so stunned I forgot to bow at this unexpected compliment.