The girl shook her head slowly. “I never can understand why it is any satisfaction to you to pretend. You find comfort in pretending that Mr. Evringham likes to have us here, likes us to use his carriages, to receive his friends, and all the rest of it. We've been here seven weeks and three days, and that little game of pretending is satisfying you still. You are like the ostrich with its head in the sand.” Mrs. Evringham drew her lithe figure up. “Well, Eloise, I hope there are limits to this. To call your own mother an--an ostrich!” “Don't speak so loud,” returned the girl, rising and patting her mother's hand. “Grandfather has returned from his ride. I just heard him come in. It is too near dinner time for a scene. There is no need of our pretending to each other, is there? You have always put me off and put me off, but surely you mean to bring this to an end pretty soon?” “You could bring it to an end at once if you would!” returned Mrs. Evringham, her voice lowered. “Dr. Ballard has nothing to wait for. I know all about his circumstances. There never was such a providence as father's having a friend like him ready to our hand--so suitable, so attractive, so rich!” “Yes,” responded the girl low and equably, “it is just five weeks and two days that you have been throwing me at that man's head.” “I have done nothing of the kind, Eloise Evringham.” “Yes you have,” returned the girl without excitement, “and grandfather sneering at us all the time under his mustache. He knows that there are other girls and other mothers interested in Dr. Ballard more desirable than we are. Oh! how easy it is to be more desirable than we are!” “There isn't one girl in five hundred so pretty as you,” returned Mrs. Evringham stoutly. “I wish my prettiness could persuade you into my way of thinking.” “What do you mean?” The glance of the older woman was keen and suspicious. “We would take a cheap little apartment to-morrow,” said the girl wistfully. Mrs. Evringham gave an ejaculation of impatience. “And do all our own work and live like pigs!” she returned petulantly. Eloise shrugged her shoulders. “I may flatter myself, but I fancy I should keep it rather clean.” “You wouldn't mind your hands then.” Mrs. Evringham regarded the hands worthy to be imitated by a sculptor's art, and the girl raised them and inspected the rose-tints of their tips. “I've read something about rubber gloves,” she returned vaguely. “You'd better read something else then. How do you suppose you would get on without a carriage?” asked her mother with exasperation. “You have never had so much as a taste of privation in any form. Your suggestion is the acme of foolishness.”