"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. "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. Her face, now, as she bent over her slender, white fingers, took on a seriousness and gravity more mature; and there was in its pure, fresh beauty something almost austere. The care of her hands took her a long time; and they were not finished then, for she had yet her bath to take and her hair to do before the cream-of-something-or-other was applied to hands and feet so that they should remain snowy and satin smooth. Bathed, and once more in negligee, she let down the dull gold mass of hair which fell heavily curling to her shoulders. Then she started to comb it out as earnestly, seriously, and thoroughly as a beautiful, silky Persian cat applies itself to its toilet.