“Why, mother, what fault have you to find with her? Isn’t she a born lady?” Everard asked, a little scornfully, for he was warming up in Josephine’s defense. “Don’t misunderstand what I mean by a lady,” Mrs. Forrest said. “Birth has not all to do with it. Persons may be born of the lowliest parentage, and in the humblest shed, but still have that within them which will refine, and soften, and elevate till the nobility within asserts itself, and lifts them above their surroundings. In this case,” and she glanced again at the picture, “the inborn nobility, if there were any, has had time to assert itself, and stamp its impress upon the face, and it has not done that.” “For pity’s sake, mother, tell me what you see to dislike so much in Josephine!” Everard burst out, indignantly. His mother knew he was angry, but she would not spare him, lest a great misfortune should befall him. She saw the face she looked upon was very fair, but there was that about it from which she shrank intuitively, her quick woman instinct telling her it was false as fair, and not at all the face she would have in her boy’s home; so she answered him unhesitatingly: “Shall I tell you the kind of person I fancy this girl to be, judging from her picture? Her face is one to attract young men like you, and she would try to attract you, too, and the very manner with which she would do it would be the perfection of art. There is a treacherous, designing look in these eyes, so blue and dreamy, and about the mouth there is a cruel, selfish expression which I do not like. I do not believe she can be trusted. And then, it may be a minor matter, I do not like her style of dress. A really modest girl would not have sat for her picture with so much exposure of neck and arms, and so much jewelry. Surely you must have noticed the immense chain and cross, and all the show of bracelets, and pins, and ornaments in her hair.” Everard had thought of it, but he would not acknowledge it, and his mother continued: “The whole effect is tawdry, and, excuse me for putting it so strongly, but it reminds me of the dollar store, and the jewelry bought there. She cannot have the true instincts of a lady. Who is she, Everard, and where does she live?” Everard was terribly hurt and intensely mortified, while something told him that his mother was not altogether wrong in her estimation of the girl, whose picture did resemble more a second-rate actress tricked out in her flashy finery than a pure, modest young girl; but he answered his mother’s question, and said: “She lives in Holburton, New York, and her name is Josephine Fleming. I boarded for three weeks last summer with her mother, Widow Roxie Fleming, as the people call her.” He spit the last out a little defiantly, feeling resolved that his mother should know all he knew about the Flemings, be it good or bad, but he was not prepared for the next remark.