"Well, on Thursday, for instance, I was awfully annoyed. Mrs. Griffin was here, and seemed pleased with May, and talked to her a good deal. You know that is very important, because the duchess invites people or leaves them out pretty much as her mother dictates. So I was naturally very much gratified to see May making a good impression. In fact, Mrs. Griffin whispered to me, 'Charming! So fresh.' Presently Lady Burlington came in, and they began talking of those new people, the Aaronssohns, who have a million and a half a year. Lady Burlington had been at a big dinner there the night before, and she told us the most astonishing things of their vulgarity and their pushing ways. When she was gone Mrs. Griffin said, 'I do like Lady Burlington,' and began praising her manners and her air of _grande dame_. And, very kindly turning to May, she said, 'Do you know, little one, that that is one of the proudest women in England?' 'Is she?' said May. 'I should never have guessed that she was proud.' Something in her way of saying it caught Mrs. Griffin's attention; and she pressed her and cross-questioned her, until May blurted out that she thought it despicable to accept vulgar people's hospitality only because they were rich, and then to ridicule them for being vulgar. I never was so shocked; for, you know, the duchess and Mrs. Griffin both went to the Aaronssohns' ball last season. Now you know," pursued Mrs. Dormer-Smith almost tearfully, "that kind of thing will never do. You must allow that it will never do, Frederick." "It would be awkward," assented Frederick, looking grave. "Couldn't you tell her?" "Of course, I spoke to her after Mrs. Griffin had gone away. But she only said, 'What could I do, Aunt Pauline? The old lady insisted on my answering her, and I couldn't tell her a story.' You see what a difficult kind of thing it will be to manage, Frederick." Mr. Dormer-Smith had become a great partisan of May's. He was genuinely grateful for her kindness to his children, and would willingly have taken her part had it been possible. But he felt that his wife was right; it would really never do to carry into society an _enfant terrible_ of such uncompromising truthfulness. And this feeling was much strengthened by the recollection of sundry remarks which May had innocently made to himself--remarks indicating an inconvenient assumption on her part that one's principles must naturally regulate one's practice. However, as he told his wife, they must trust to time and experience to correct this crudeness. "She is but a schoolgirl, after all," he said. Pauline did not pursue the subject, but she reflected within herself that there are schoolgirls and schoolgirls.