“Very creditable of you to think for yourself. And it certainly would be unbecoming for one of the Carteret ladies to work for her living.” “That isn’t worrying me, either. My objections to looking for a job and holding it down are purely personal.” “You are very modern.” Mr. Donald sighed. “Oh, that’s rather old-fashioned.” “I mean in your complete indifference to tradition. But that seems to be one of the many phases of the present unrest. The war no doubt. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?” “Of course you will continue to take care of the estate? I am hopelessly ignorant.” “With the greatest pleasure!” Another apprehension was laid. In money matters at least this young rebel did not purpose to take the bit between her teeth. “And remember, if you need advice of any kind my services are at your immediate disposal.” “I’d like to sell the house in Atlantic City at once and renovate this. I’ll keep the best of the furniture, of course, but the rest will go to the stables. My grandmother’s room I shall keep intact—as a memorial to the Carterets!” “Well, I can’t blame you. But the lease of the house on States Avenue has a year to run. After the inheritance tax has been disposed of I’ll see what can be done.” “Thanks. Sooner the better. Perhaps I could persuade the Pelhams to get out. Topper says they left cards and that gives me an excuse to call on them.” Mr. Donald gave his smallest and tightest smile. “Try, by all means,” he said. “And your luck seems to have changed. Now, I must really bid you good-day. I shall be over again shortly with papers to sign.” CHAPTER VII It was Easter Sunday and Gita was strolling along the Boardwalk. Mr. Donald had considerately sent her a check and she had bought a small black sailor hat, which she wore on the back of her head that her cropped hair should further demonstrate her complete indifference to feminine allure. She had also invested in a black sport skirt that she might be able to keep one hand in a pocket, and in the other she carried a swagger-stick. A stiff white shirtwaist and black tie completed her toilette. She flattered herself that she looked like a boy masquerading as a girl and was somewhat disconcerted when no less than two passing men murmured, “Cutie.” Then she was abruptly a haughty young woman—and a Carteret—freezing impertinent libertines. “But if I only _were_ a boy,” she sighed. “I don’t believe I’d even mind work. And girls are ten thousand times nicer than men. Then I could fall in love with one of them, and now that is forever denied me.” But she did not really feel sad. The warm gold sun rode in an unflecked sky. The sea rolled in to the white sands in long sparkling indolent waves. Over the hard beach young people were riding horseback and children were driving little carts, or building in the sand. A great liner drifted on the horizon.