Extraordinary the relief of falling back on studio badinage! It took her off the Collingham stilts, away from the high-wrought Collingham emotions. She began to see what the trouble was with Bob. His touch wasn’t light enough. He was too purposeful. He seemed to think you must mean something all the time. Mrs. Collingham, too, seemed to think so. It was not in Bob’s language so much as in his cast of mind; but it was in his mother’s cast of mind, and in her language, too. Jennie thought of this as she stood before the pier-glass in the little dressing-room, first taking off her jacket, and then unpinning her hat. She would have to do her hair on the top of her head like the girl in Hubert’s sketch. "And that’s all the clothes I shall need to put on," she tried to say flippantly. She tried to say it flippantly, because that, too, would be along the line that people took who weren’t Collinghams. People who weren’t Collinghams! That meant all the people in Indiana Avenue, all the people in Pemberton Heights, the vast majority of the people in the United States, not to speak of any other country. Jennie had a good many acquaintances, and the family, taken as a whole, had more; but she couldn’t think of anyone in their class who took life as more than a skimming on the surface. Outside the bounden duties which they couldn’t avoid they chiefly liked being silly. She thought of that, too, loosening her hair and letting it fall in amber wavelets over her shoulders and down her back. Mrs. Collingham had said that it was lovely hair, but she hadn’t really seen it. There was so much of it that, when she piled it up like the girl in the sketch, it almost overweighted her delicate little face. No; whatever you could say about people like the Collinghams, you couldn’t say they were silly. They had motives, opinions, points of view. They had minds, and they used them. They might not use them well, but to use them at all was better than to let them grow atrophied. Jennie, as has been said, had no words to express these thoughts, but, like Pansy, she could do without a vocabulary. She felt; she vibrated. She, too, had a mind, though she was afraid of putting it to work. Lingering over the piling of her hair, she wondered if the use or nonuse of the mind marked the real line between people like the Collinghams and people like the Folletts. Was that why the country was divided into highbrows and lowbrows—those who made the best of what they had, and those who disqualified themselves for all the stronger purposes? Since her peep at Marillo Park, she saw that something admitted one to such a haven, and something kept one out. There was money, of course, and position; but back of both position and money wasn’t it the case that there was mind? She threw off her blouse and lingered again to examine her arms and bust. She lingered on purpose, putting off the extraordinary thing she had to do to the latest possible minute.