In turn she told of her ambition to do something modern and urban. She had hesitated between dancing and making exotic jewelry; she was glad she had chosen the former; it was so human; it put one in touch with People.... She had recently gone to dinner with real Bohemians, spirits of fire, splendidly in contrast with the dull plodders of Joralemon. The dinner had been at a marvelous place on West Tenth Street--very foreign, every one drinking wine and eating spaghetti and little red herrings, and the women fearlessly smoking cigarettes--some of them. She had gone with a girl from Mme. Vashkowska's school, a glorious creature from London, Nebraska, who lived with the most fascinating girls at the Three Arts Club. They had met an artist with black hair and languishing eyes, who had a Yankee name, but sang Italian songs divinely, upon the slightest pretext, so bubbling was he with _joie de vivre_. Carl was alarmed. "Gosh!" he protested, "I hope you aren't going to have much to do with the long-haired bunch.... I've invented a name for them--'the Hobohemians.'" "Oh no-o! I don't take them seriously at all. I was just glad to go once." "Of course some of them are clever." "Oh yes, aren't they clever!" "But I don't think they last very well." "Oh no, I'm sure they don't last well. Oh no, Carl, I'm too old and fat to be a Bohemian--a Hobohemian, I mean, so----" "Nonsense! You look so--oh, thunder! I don't know just how to express it--well, so _real_! It's wonderfully comfortable to be with you-all again. I don't mean you're just the 'so good to her mother' sort, you understand. But I mean you're dependable as well as artistic." "Oh, indeed, I won't take them too seriously. Besides, I suppose lots of the people that go to Bohemian restaurants aren't really artists at all; they just go to see the artists; they're just as bromidic as can be----Don't you hate bromides? Of course I want to see some of that part of life, but I think----Oh, don't you think those artists and all are dreadfully careless about morals?" "Well----" "Yes," she breathed, reflectively. "No, I keep up with my church and all--indeed I do. Oh, Carl, you must come to our church--St. Orgul's. It's too sweet for anything. It's just two blocks from here; and it isn't so far up here, you know, not with the subway--not like commuting. It has the _loveliest_ chapel. And the most wonderful reredos. And the services are so inspiring and high-church; not like that horrid St. Timothy's at home. I do think a church service ought to be beautiful. Don't you? It isn't as though we were like a lot of poor people who have to have their souls saved in a mission.... What church do you attend? You _will_ come to St. Orgul's some time, won't you?" "Be glad to----Oh, say, Gertie, before I forget it, what is Semina doing now? Is she married?" Apropos of this subject, Gertie let it be known that she herself was not betrothed.