"He had better taste than that, my dear. He would not even bring Marcia, though she was dying to come. It was for the very _creme_, you know. I'm not frantically in love with such things, only the name of having gone. Do you know that Floyd is rather of the leonine order? Isn't it abominable that he should have made such a social blunder? The only comfort is, she is or ought to be in deep mourning, and cannot go out anywhere. Why, we gave up all invitations last winter." "I wonder, Laura dear, if I would dare ask a favor of your mother? It might be a little rest and change, and yet--I am just selfish enough to consider my own pleasure; I should like to invite her down for a fortnight, and give two or three little spreads, don't you young people call them? You see I am not quite up in slang. A dinner and one or two little teas, and an at home evening, something to say to people that I am really here, though there have been several cards left, and I _must_ get well for Thursday. How stupid to indulge in such an inane freak when I have uninterruptedly good health." "Oh, I am sure mamma would be delighted! Why, it is lovely in you to think of it, instead of taking in some poky old companion." "I am not very fond of companions. I like visitors best. I dare say I am fickle. And I want some one able to correct any foreign ignorance that may linger about me." "As if you did not know you were perfect and altogether charming, and that your little foreign airs and graces are the things we all fall down and worship!" laughs Laura. "I could almost find it in my heart to wish I were a dowager." "You can come without the added dignity of years. I have a motherly interest in you. If you were not married I dare say I should 'ransack the ages' for some one fit and proper, and turn into a match-maker." "You had better take Marcia in hand; I think of doing it myself. Gert is past hope." "Marcia is not so bad," says madame, reflectively, "if only she would not set up for a genius. It is the great fault of young American women. Abroad everything is done, even studying music, under an assumed name, but one does not go on the stage." "Marcia is a fool," says Laura, with most unsisterly decision. "Well, about your mother. You think I may write. I trespassed upon your hospitality so long----" "Oh, whatever should I have done without you! And there is another funny thing," says Laura irrelevantly. "Mrs. Floyd has taken up literature. She copies and translates and does no end of work for the professor; and he has hired her cottage, where they all do some Bohemianish housekeeping, I believe." Madame raises her delicate eyebrows a trifle. "She must be well trained, then," she makes answer. "She may do admirably for your brother, after all." "Hem!" retorts Laura, "what does a little writing amount to? Only it _is_ queer."