“But I’m not above them,” protested she. “And I couldn’t like any girl I’d be ashamed to be seen with, unless she were a sort of servant. Oh, papa, you don’t appreciate how proud I am.” “Proud of what, dear? Of your parents? Of yourself?” She hung her head. “Of what, dear?” I urged. “It hurts me not to be treated as--as the inside clique of girls in our secret society treat each other.” She was almost crying. “They don’t even call me by my first name any more. They speak to me as Miss Loring--and _so_ politely--exactly as I speak to Miss Parnell or one of the teachers or a servant. Oh, I’m so proud! I’d love to be like Gracie Fortescue. She speaks even to Miss Ryper as I would to Miss Parnell.” My digestion wasn’t any too good, even in those days. My whole breakfast suddenly went wrong--turned to poison inside me, I suppose. A hot wave of rage against I knew not whom or what rolled up into my brain. I pushed away my plate abruptly. “Run along, child,” I said in a hoarse voice I did not recognize as my own. She threw her arms round my neck with a gesture and an expression that made me realize how close a copy of her mother she was. “You wouldn’t take me away from my school, would you, papa dear?” she pleaded. “All I want is to make you happy,” said I, patting and stroking that thick and lovely veil of flowing hair. She assumed that I meant she was to stay on with the viperous Ryper brood, and went away almost happy. She had awakened to the fact that there were fates even worse than being snubbed and addressed like a teacher or a companion or a servant or some other lower animal--yes, far worse fates. For instance, not being able to feel that she was, on whatever degrading terms, at least associated with the adored fashionables. That evening when my wife again accompanied me to my study, after dinner, I said to her: “I’ve been turning over our talk last night. I haven’t been able to reach a conclusion as yet, except on one point. I can’t help you socially in the way you suggested.” I glanced at her as I said this. She was looking at me. Her pale, intense expression fascinated me. “I don’t think you have thought about it fully,” said she slowly. “Yes,” said I, with my utmost deliberateness; “and my decision is final.” She rose, stood beside her chair, rubbing her hand softly along the top of the back. “Very well,” said she quietly. And she left me alone. V