“Charmed to meet you, I'm sure,” said Mrs. Stebbins. “I've heard my husband speak of your husband so often. How well you are looking, Mrs.--” She stopped; and Maw, knowing the terrors of her name, made haste to say something agreeable. “Yes, ma'am; dis country agrees vit me fine. Since I come here, I've rode and et, shoost rode and et.” “And Mr. T-S,” said I. “Howdydo, Mr. T-S?” “Pretty good, ma'am,” said T-S. He had been caught with his mouth full, and was making desperate efforts to swallow. A singular thing is the power of class prestige! Here was Maw, a good woman, according to her lights, who had worked hard all her life, and had achieved a colossal and astounding success. She had everything in the world that money could buy; her hair was done by the best hair-dresser, her gown had been designed by the best costumer, her rings and bracelets selected by the best jeweller; and yet nothing was right, no power on earth could make it right, and Maw knew it, and writhed the consciousness of it. And here was Mrs. Parmelee Stebbins, who had never done a useful thing in all her days--except you count the picking out of a rich husband; yet Mrs. Stebbins was “right,” and Maw knew it, and in the presence of the other woman she was in an utter panic, literally quivering in every nerve. And here was old T-S, who, left to himself, might have really meant what he said, that Mrs. Stebbins could go to hell; but because he was married, and loved his wife, he too trembled, and gulped down his food! Mrs. Stebbins is one of those American matrons who do not allow marriage and motherhood to make vulgar physical impressions upon them. Her pale blue gown might have been worn by her daughter; her cool grey eyes looked out through a face without a wrinkle from a soul without a care. She was a patroness of art and intellect; but never did she forget her fundamental duty, the enhancing of the prestige of a family name. When she was introduced to a screen-actress, she was gracious, but did not forget the difference between an actress and a lady. When she was introduced to a strange man who did not wear trousers, she took it quite as an everyday matter, revealing no trace of vulgar human curiosity. There came Bertie, full grown, but not yet out of the pimply stage, and still conscious of the clothes which he had taken such pains to get right. Bertie's sister remained in her seat, refusing naughtily to be compromised by her mother's vagaries; but Bertie had a purpose, and after I had introduced him round, I saw what he wanted--Mary Magna! Bertie had a vision of himself as a sort of sporting prince in this movie world. His social position would make conquests easy; it was a sort of Christmas-tree, all a-glitter with prizes. I was standing near, and heard the beginning of their conversation. “Oh, Miss Magna, I'm so pleased to meet you. I've heard so much about you from Miss Dulles.” “Miss Dulles?” “Yes; Dorothy Dulles.”