Two plump ladies with large busts and very small waists were sitting in the salon of the Allen apartment, waiting for the mistress of the house. They wore very tight-fitting dresses of excellent silk, obviously not new, obviously made by the sort of "little dressmaker" who goes from house to house. Their shoes were stout and clumsy, their hats somewhat heavy in line, their gloves exquisitely fitting, perfectly fresh, made of the finest-grained leather. Although the sky was blue, each lady carried a small silk umbrella of the very best quality, tightly rolled with a masterly smoothness, as smoothly tubular as the day it was bought. The two women held their cruelly corseted bodies very erect, and sat squarely on their chairs, both feet on the floor, their knees close together, their backbones very straight. Under the brims of their heavy, much-ornamented hats, their fresh, healthy faces wore an expression of perfect stability. They knew that they produced exactly the impression they meant to produce, and that they looked exactly like what they were. From every inch of them was proclaimed the fact that they were fine housekeepers and economical managers of their husbands' incomes, that they were of the well-to-do bourgeoisie and proud of it, as of everything else they were and did. They looked out on their lives and found them good in every detail, from their slightly and purposely behind-the-fashion dresses to their stout shoes, evidence of their respectability; from their fixed ideas to their excellent gloves. They glanced about them now, keenly, with the penetrating survey of the professional good housekeeper, and found much to comment on. "How strange to have no lace curtains over the windows, only the heavy ones at the side. Why, people outside must be able to _look right in_! Do you suppose they have taken them out to be washed? Or don't they know about curtains in America?" They murmured their remarks in a low tone, keeping a weather-ear cocked to the hall. "That wall-paper is disgraceful. It was on when the Charpentiers lived here." "M. Lapagorry had expected, you know, of course, to do this apartment over after the Charpentiers moved out. But these new people never made a single comment, or complaint. Just accepted it." "I daresay they are used to log-cabins at home, with Indians at the door." "Oh, no, Madame Garnier, my Henri says that the Indians are quite civilized in America now." Madame Garnier frowned slightly at the mention of Henri. The other woman went on, "Apparently they thought it was all right to have faded paper and those awful old curtains. M. Lapagorry was so astonished he almost fell over backward. And when he saw they didn't find fault with anything, he asked a higher rent, ever so much higher than the Charpentiers had paid, and they took _that_ too without a word. People say M. Lapagorry can't sleep nights now because he didn't ask more."