“Yes. Miss Parnell”--her companion--“has a headache, poor creature!” Margot had caught to perfection the refined, elegant, fashionable tone of speaking of the servile classes. Though I was in a critical mood that morning, I was not critical of my beloved little Margot, and her airs entertained me as much as ever. Said I: “Sit down, little duchess”--the familiar name slipped out unconsciously--“and talk to me a few minutes.” “But I’m shockingly late, papa,” pleaded she. “No matter. I’ll telephone Miss Ryper, if you wish.” To the butler, who was serving me: “Sackville, go tell Therese that I’m detaining Miss Margot. And close the door behind you.” Sackville retired. Margot seated herself with alacrity. She did not like her useless school any better than other children like more or less useful schools. “Are you taking me to the theater Saturday afternoon, as you promised?” said she. “And do get a box and let me ask two of the girls.” “Certainly,” said I. “If I can’t go, Miss Parnell will chaperon you.” “No, I want you, papa. It’s so nice to have a man.” “How are you getting on at school? Not with the studies”--I laughed at the absurdity of calling her fiddle-faddle studies--“but with the girls?” Her face clouded. “Has mamma told you?” “Told me what?” She hesitated. “Go on, dear,” said I. “What’s the trouble?” “Oh, it’s always the same thing,” she sighed, with a grown-up air that was both humorous and pathetic. “Some of the girls are down on me--about--about social position. You see, we don’t go _socially_ with their families.” “Why should we?” said I. “We don’t know them nor they us. Naturally, they don’t care anything about us, nor we about them.” She hung her head. “But I want to go with them,” said she doggedly. “Why?” said I. “Because--because--it’s the proper thing to do. If you don’t go with them everybody looks down on you.” She lifted her head, and her flashing eyes reminded me of her mother. “It makes me just _wild_ to be looked down on.” “I should say so,” said I. “Those little girls at Miss Ryper’s must be an ill-bred lot. We must take you away from there and put you in a school with nice girls.” “Oh, no, father!” she cried in a panic. “Those girls are the _nicest_--the only nice girls in any school in New York. All the other schools look up to ours. I’d cry my eyes out in any other school.” “Why?” said I. “I’d feel--_low_.” Her eyes had filled and her cheeks were flushed. “I’d be out of place except among the richest and most aristocratic girls.” “But you don’t like them,” said I gently. I began to feel a sensation of sickness at the heart. “I _hate_ them!” cried she with passionate energy. “But I want to stay on there and _make_ them be friendly with me. I’ve got too much pride, papa, to run away.” “Pride,” said I, and my tone must have been sad. “That isn’t pride, dear. You ought to choose your friends by liking. You ought to feel above girls with such cheap ideas.”