"Yes, darling," said Mrs. Goodchild, absently. "I don't think. I'd like it quite like Celestine's-- Grace, love, will you run over to Raquin's spring exhibition at the Fitz-Marlton and look at it? It is next to the black that Mrs. Vandergilt liked. I have an appointment with Celestine--" Grace knew that the selection of a husband could wait, for fashions in that line do not change so quickly as in skirts. She dutifully said, "I will!" She also had her eye on one. Before going to Raquin's display she stopped at Oldman's. The store flunky opened the door of her motor and smiled happily when he saw who it was. She was made subtly conscious that he was dying to announce her name to the world at the top of his enthusiastic voice. Life in New York had its compensations, after all. She entered. The shop-girls whispered to the customers on whom they were waiting. The customers turned quickly and stared at Grace Goodchild. "She often comes here!" she heard the pretty little thing in charge of seventy-two glove-boxes say proudly to a client. The girl who waited on Grace was a stranger. Nevertheless, when Grace told her "I'll take these!" the girl said, "Very well, Miss Goodchild." "Oh!" gasped Grace. "You know me?" "What d'ye t'ink I am?" said the girl, indignantly. "Say, it was great, Miss Goodchild!" The worship in the girl's eyes kept the language from being offensive. "Thank you!" "I hope you'll be very happy, Miss Goodchild," said the girl, and blushed. "Oh, I didn't mean to be--I--I couldn't help wishing it, Miss Goodchild!" "I'm sure I'm very grateful for your good wishes," Grace told her, graciously. The child's--age twenty-four--eyes filled with tears. As Grace walked away, Mayme's lips moved raptly. She was memorizing dem woids. On her way out Grace went through the same craning of necks, the same vivid curiosity, the same half-audible murmurs, the same spitefulness in the eyes of the women who, though rich, were not famous. Everybody is so disgustingly rich nowadays that society had begun to applaud such remarks as, "I've had to give up one of my motors," or, "Jim says he won't put the _Mermaid_ in commission this year; simply can't afford it." At Raquin's wonderful exhibition of models Grace saw exactly what she wished to see. It would be worthy of her and of her throat. One who is photographed many times a week has to have gowns; not to have them is almost immoral. Grace was so concerned with doing her duty toward the public that she forgot that she had come to see the third one, next to Mrs. Vandergilt's black. She was nearly half-way home before she remembered what her mother had asked her to do. Grace went back to the Fitz-Marlton. Dress was a public service. Mrs. Goodchild's clothes must tell the public whose mother she was. She told the chauffeur "Home," and began to think. Pleasure could be made a duty. Blessed indeed is she in whose mind, as in a vast cathedral, pleasure and duty solemnly contract nuptials.