"I--I'm not dressed for--"

"You're all right," said Beth, supporting her cousin's proposition.
"We'll lend you anything you need."

"Do come, Miss Hewitt," added Louise.

Hetty sighed, then smiled and finally climbed into the surrey.

"In New York," she said, as they started on, "I've sometimes hobnobbed
with editors; but this is somewhat different."

"In what way?" asked Patsy casually.

"You're not real journalists, you know, and--"

"Why aren't we journalists?" asked Louise.

For a moment Hetty was puzzled how to reply.

"You are doing very good editorial work," she said mendaciously, "but,
after all, you are only playing at journalism. The real journalist--as I
know him--is a Bohemian; a font of cleverness running to waste; a
reckless, tender-hearted, jolly, careless ne'er-do-well who works like a
Trojan and plays like a child. He is very sophisticated at his desk and
very artless when he dives into the underworld for rest and recreation.
He lives at high tension, scintillates, burns his red fire without
discrimination and is shortly extinguished. You are not like that. You
can't even sympathize with that sort of person. But I can, for I'm cut