you know--she's the sort of woman who likes to sit down under a
portrait of your great-grandfather, in a dim parlor full of mahogany
and rose jars, with her black silk skirts spreading about her, and an
Old Blue cup in her hand, and talk family,--how cousin this married a
man whose people aren't anybody, and cousin that is outraging
precedent by naming her child for her husband's side of the house.
She's a funny, dear old lady! You know, Miss Paget," the professor
went on, with his eager, impersonal air, "when I met you, I thought
you didn't quite seem like a New Yorker and a Bar Harborer--if that's
the word! Aunt Pam--you know she's my only mother, I got all my early
knowledge from her!--Aunt Pam detests the usual New York girl, and the
minute I met you I knew she'd like you. You'd sort of fit into the
Dayton picture, with your braids, and those ruffly things you wear!"

Margaret said simply, "I would love to meet her," and began slowly to
draw on her gloves. It surely was not requisite that she should add,
"But you must not confuse my home with any such exquisitely ordered
existence as that. We are poor people, our house is crowded, our days
a severe and endless struggle with the ugly things of life. We have
good blood in our veins, but not more than hundreds of thousands of
other American families. My mother would not understand one tenth of
your aunt's conversation; your aunt would find very uninteresting the
things that are vital to my mother."

No, she couldn't say that. She picked up her dashing little hat, and
pinned it over her loosened soft mass of yellow hair, and buttoned up
her storm coat, and plunged her hands deep in her pockets. No, the
professor would call on her at Bar Harbor, take a yachting trip with
the Carr-Boldts perhaps, and then--and then, when they were really
good friends, some day she would ask. Mother to have a simple little