Her mother turned the conversation, thinking she would be glad when this period of high-strung nerves and fancies should be over. She told Dr. Melton that it seemed to her that "Lydia took it very hard," and she supposed they couldn't expect her to be herself until after September. The doctor answered: "Oh, there's a great deal of nonsense about that kind of talk. A normal woman--and, thank Heaven, Lydia's that to the last degree--has the whole universe back of her. Lydia's always balanced on a hair trigger, it's true, but she _is_ balanced! And now all nature is rallying to her like an army with banners." "Ah, you never went through it yourself!" Mrs. Emery retreated to the safe stronghold of matronhood. "You don't know! I had strange fancies, like Lydia's. Women always do." Another one of Lydia's fancies of that summer drove her to a strange disregard of caste rules. It came through a sudden impulse of compassion one hot midsummer day when Miss Burgess hobbled up the driveway in the hope of gleaning some Bellevue society notes. "It's a terrible time of year, Miss Lydia," she said, sinking into a chair with a long, quavering sigh. "One drops from thirty and sometimes forty dollars a week to twenty or less; and it's so hard on one's feet, being on them in hot weather. I assure you mine ache like the toothache. And expenses are as high as in winter, or worse, when you have an invalid to look out for. Out here in breezy Bellevue you've no conception how hot it is on Main Street. And Mother _feels_ the heat!" All this she said, not complainingly, but in her usual twittering manner of imparting information, as though it were an incident of a five-o'clock tea, but Lydia felt a pang of remorse for her usual thoughtless attitude of exasperated hilarity over Miss Burgess' peculiarities. She noticed that the kind, vacuous face was beginning to look more than middle-aged, and that the scanty hair above it was whitening rapidly. "Why, bring your mother out here for the day, why don't you, any time!" she said impulsively. "I can't have any social engagements, you know, the way I am, and Paul's away a good deal of the time, and 'Stashie and I can get you tea and eggs and toast, at least. I'd love to have her. Now, any morning that threatens heat, just you telephone you're both coming to spend the day." She felt quite strange at the thought that she had never seen the mother of this devoted, unselfish, affectionate, lifelong acquaintance. But Miss Burgess, though moved almost to tears at Lydia's "kind thoughtfulness," clung steadfastly to her standards. She had always known that she must not presume on her "exceptional opportunities for acquaintance with Endbury's social leaders," she told Lydia, nor take advantage of any inadvertent kindness of theirs. Her mother would be the first one to blame her if she did; her mother knew the world very well. She went away, murmuring broken thanks and protestations of devotion.