Mark nodded. The young fellow gave the grouped women another stare and crossed the tight knees of his sailor’s breeches. The nostrils of his shapely, short nose shook a trifle. He tilted his flat cap further over an ear and winked comradely at Mark, “Wonder who the kids’ fathers are, huh? A lot of rich dames....” He spat and added, “Well, you can’t blame ’em so much. Their husban’s are all keepin’ these chorus girls. But it’s too much money, that’s what. If they’d got to work some and cook an’ all they wouldn’t have time for this society stuff. It’s too much money. If they’d got to cook their meals they wouldn’t have time for carryin’ on with all these artists an’ actors an’ things--” He broke off to snap at a girl who came hurrying from a telephone booth, “Say, what in hell? Makin’ another date?” “Honest, I was just phonin’ mamma,” the girl said. “You took a time!--Phonin’ her what?” He scowled, dominating the girl, “Huh?” The girl argued, “I’d got to tell her sump’n, ain’t I, Jimmy? I told her I was goin’ to a show with a gerl fren’--” “Some friend,” said the sailor, laughed at himself and tramped off with his girl under an arm. The girl’s cheap suit of beryl cloth shook out a scent of cinnamon. Mark sighed; she was young and pretty and shouldn’t lie to her mother about men. But perhaps her mother was bad tempered, illiberal. Perhaps the flat was crowded with a preposterous family and exuded this slim thing often, hoping a fragment of pleasure. A man couldn’t be critical. Mark went to meet Gurdy and immediately forgot all discomforts in seeing that the boy had grown an inch, that the lashes about his dark blue eyes were blackening, in hearing him admit that he was glad to be at home again. Gurdy’s schoolmates had sisters at Miss Thorne’s, it seemed, and Mark waited, fretting, through the Christmas holidays until his broker wrote that Miss Thorne would be pleased to have Margot as a pupil. Miss Converse, the governess, asked Mark bluntly how he had managed this matter. “You Americans are extraordinary,” she said, “You’re so--so essentially undemocratic. It’s shocking. But we must get Margot some decent frocks directly.” The bill for Margot’s massed Christmas clothes lay on his desk. Mark started, protesting, “But--” “I’ve been meaning to talk of this for some time,” said the governess. “Her clothes?” “Her clothes.--My people were quite rich, you know, and I had things from Paris but really--O, really, Mr. Walling, you mustn’t let her have every pretty frock she sees! I must say you’ve more taste than most women--quite remarkable. But what will there be left for the child when she comes out?”