"Exactly! We women are silly fools in the way we submit to being controlled. We haven't any independence even in our clothes. We let a few shoddy French modistes, and their _demi-mondaine_ assistants at the Longchamps races, prescribe what we shall wear, and we follow with the abject servility of slaves--never pausing to think whether the fashions are becoming, or hideous, or grotesque. And we change them every three months--so the tailors and dressmakers can overcharge us four times a year. _A man!_ I should like to see the tailors who had the hardihood to try it. They make his clothes as _he_ wants them, and they make them the same way and the same cut year after year. A man can wear out his clothes, and be in fashion until they're worn out if it takes five years. His hats are the same style year after year, his shoes are the same last, his collars and neckties vary practically not at all. There is something fine about a man's supreme indifference; making the tradesmen do as he wants, instead of as the tradesman wants--as we do. And it's all because we are afraid; afraid of being behind the styles--behind some one who has something newer than ourselves. We forget that we control the styles, and that if we would simply refuse to change there would not be a change--and the modistes would become--as the men's tailors are--purveyors of goods, not dictators of styles." "It is absurd, of course," agreed Stephanie; "yet who is to break the chains that custom has welded? We women are more or less fools--and the shopkeepers and their class trade on the fact, and laugh in their sleeves while doing it. And we know we're fools and that they're laughing, but we pretend ignorance. It must be very amusing to a man." "If he takes time enough to notice it--or if it doesn't touch him in the pocket," Marcia returned. "More especially the latter!" Stephanie laughed. She saw Mrs. Porterfield coming down the room with Mrs. Postlewaite. As they neared, she glanced at them with the casual look of a total stranger, and went on with her luncheon. Miss Emerson remarked it and smiled inwardly in appreciation of the situation. It was beautifully carried off. The Queen P's were being deliberately ignored--not Mrs. Lorraine. As they passed, both dames nodded pleasantly to Marcia. Then Mrs. Porterfield, catching Stephanie's eye, bowed slightly but with unmistakable deliberation--as though she wished to impress the act upon all who witnessed it. Stephanie instantly returned it in just the way it was given--with precisely the same manner and deliberation. Then a little mocking smile crept into her eyes and lingered. "I know it is bad taste to comment on what does not concern one," Marcia remarked, "but do you quite appreciate the honor that has been done you?" "I understand the honor--even if I don't appreciate it," Stephanie replied. "It is the first indication that the icebergs are preparing to melt."