Mrs. Hurstwood was the type of woman who has ever endeavoured to shine and has been more or less chagrined at the evidences of superior capability in this direction elsewhere. Her knowledge of life extended to that little conventional round of society of which she was not—but longed to be—a member. She was not without realisation already that this thing was impossible, so far as she was concerned. For her daughter, she hoped better things. Through Jessica she might rise a little. Through George, Jr.’s, possible success she might draw to herself the privilege of pointing proudly. Even Hurstwood was doing well enough, and she was anxious that his small real estate adventures should prosper. His property holdings, as yet, were rather small, but his income was pleasing and his position with Fitzgerald and Moy was fixed. Both those gentlemen were on pleasant and rather informal terms with him. The atmosphere which such personalities would create must be apparent to all. It worked out in a thousand little conversations, all of which were of the same calibre. “I’m going up to Fox Lake to-morrow,” announced George, Jr., at the dinner table one Friday evening. “What’s going on up there?” queried Mrs. Hurstwood. “Eddie Fahrway’s got a new steam launch, and he wants me to come up and see how it works.” “How much did it cost him?” asked his mother. “Oh, over two thousand dollars. He says it’s a dandy.” “Old Fahrway must be making money,” put in Hurstwood. “He is, I guess. Jack told me they were shipping Vegacura to Australia now—said they sent a whole box to Cape Town last week.” “Just think of that!” said Mrs. Hurstwood, “and only four years ago they had that basement in Madison Street.” “Jack told me they were going to put up a six-story building next spring in Robey Street.” “Just think of that!” said Jessica. On this particular occasion Hurstwood wished to leave early. “I guess I’ll be going down town,” he remarked, rising. “Are we going to McVicker’s Monday?” questioned Mrs. Hurstwood, without rising. “Yes,” he said indifferently. They went on dining, while he went upstairs for his hat and coat. Presently the door clicked. “I guess papa’s gone,” said Jessica. The latter’s school news was of a particular stripe. “They’re going to give a performance in the Lyceum, upstairs,” she reported one day, “and I’m going to be in it.” “Are you?” said her mother. “Yes, and I’ll have to have a new dress. Some of the nicest girls in the school are going to be in it. Miss Palmer is going to take the part of Portia.” “Is she?” said Mrs. Hurstwood. “They’ve got that Martha Griswold in it again. She thinks she can act.” “Her family doesn’t amount to anything, does it?” said Mrs. Hurstwood sympathetically. “They haven’t anything, have they?” “No,” returned Jessica, “they’re poor as church mice.” She distinguished very carefully between the young boys of the school, many of whom were attracted by her beauty.