“Not at all. Quite the contrary. I wonder men are ever attracted to women these days. Nature intended women to have figures entirely different from men. Else why didn’t she make them on the same plan and save them the trouble of starving themselves? Answer me that!” said the old lady triumphantly. “A girl in my day, my daughters’ day, had no chance if she looked like a lath. She padded. And these young ninnies of today may have a certain style but not a particle of elegance. No wonder they wear little straight frocks. It takes a figger to show off elegant gowns. What in the world started such a fashion?” she asked querulously. “Do you mean to tell me men admire girls that look like boys?” “They seem to. Probably that’s the reason the girls have sacrificed woman’s chief adornment.” “But men used to rave over woman’s tresses.” “Well, the men nowadays don’t rave much except over bootleggers and motors. Perhaps that’s the reason they want the girls to look as much like themselves as possible. Or maybe they’re more in love with themselves than ever since the war and the girls imitate them without realizing it is a sort of subtle flattery.” Gita was unconsciously groping. She had never given the matter a thought. Mrs. Carteret cackled, her frail body shaking. “I suppose that’s the reason you shaved your head, didn’t even leave a few locks in front to cover your ears and soften your forehead!” “I?” Gita forgot the jewels. “I should think not. It’s about the last reason!” “Well, jewels and hairless heads don’t go together. It will be a good time to let your hair grow, while you’re in mourning, and some clever hair-dresser will find a way to tuck it up. I suppose it is naturally straight but it could be waved. And that reminds me. I am making you promise a good many things but this is one of the most important. When the proper time comes Mary Pleyden will introduce you to Society, and you are to go to the best dressmaker you can afford and wear the most elaborate clothes that fashion permits.” “Nothing is very elaborate these days.” “So I understand. But you are to dress like other girls—the most sensible and feminine. That’s all I have to ask. Is it understood?” “Yes, grandmother, but I don’t care for clothes, really——” “Never had ’em. That’s the reason. You’re a stoic, I imagine, and wouldn’t permit yourself to want what you couldn’t have. Wait until you have a wardrobe full of pretty things.” Gita shrugged her thin shoulders. “Perhaps. But I don’t care for society either, grandmother. I—I—don’t know how to dance.” “I never heard of such a thing! But you can learn, I suppose. You’re naturally graceful. You wouldn’t be a Carteret if you weren’t.” Gita hastily changed the subject. “And I never know what to talk to men about. I’d really rather live quietly here and go over to New York occasionally—to the theater and concerts and lectures. And the opera! I haven’t been to an opera since I was fourteen.”