"Well, that's where you mothers get in wrong," declared Mrs. Wrapp with her vigorous bluntness. "It's your pride. Just because they're _your_ daughters they are above reproach.... What have you to say about the war babies in town? Did you ever hear of _that_ ten years ago? You bet you didn't. These girls are a speedy set. Some of them are just wild for the sake of wildness. Most of them _have_ to stand for things, or be left out altogether." "What in the world can we do?" queried Mrs. Maynard, divided between distress and chagrin. "The good Lord only knows," responded Mrs. Wrapp, herein losing her assurance. "Marriage would save most of them. But Helen doesn't want to marry. She wants to paint pictures and be free." "Perhaps marriage is a solution," rejoined Mrs. Maynard thoughtfully. "Whom on earth can we marry them to?" asked Mrs. Kingsley. "Most of the older men, the bachelors who're eligible haven't any use for these girls except to _play_ with them. True, these young boys only think of little but dances, car-rides, and sneaking off alone to spoon--they get engaged to this girl and that one. But nothing comes of it." "You're wrong. Never in my time have I seen girls find lovers and husbands as easily as now," declared Mrs. Wrapp. "Nor get rid of them so quickly.... Jane, you can marry Margaret. She's pretty and sweet even if you have spoiled her. The years are slipping by. Margaret ought to marry. She's not strong enough to work. Marriage for her would make things so much easier for you." With that parting dig Mrs. Wrapp rose to go. Whereupon she and Mrs. Kingsley, with gracious words of invitation and farewell, took themselves off leaving Mrs. Maynard contending with an outraged spirit. Certain terse remarks of the crude and practical Mrs. Wrapp had forced to her mind a question that of late had assumed cardinal importance, and now had been brought to an issue by a proposal for Margaret's hand. Her daughter was a great expense, really more than could longer be borne in these times of enormous prices and shrunken income. A husband had been found for Margaret, and the matter could be adjusted easily enough, if the girl did not meet it with the incomprehensible obstinacy peculiar to her of late. Mrs. Maynard found the fair object of her hopes seated in the middle of her room with the bright contents of numerous boxes and drawers strewn in glittering heaps around her. "Margaret, what on earth are you doing there?" she demanded. "I'm looking for a little picture Holt Dalrymple gave me when we went to school together," responded Margaret. "Aren't you ever going to grow up? You'll be hunting for your dolls next." "I will if I like," said the daughter, in a tone that did not manifest a seraphic mood. "Don't you feel well?" inquired the mother, solicitously. Margaret was frail and subject to headaches that made her violent. "Oh, I'm well enough."