"Isn't Dorothy a wonder, Mrs. Bradley?" asked Elaine. "She's going
to have twenty people to dinner, she runs this big house, she's
got a baby not yet six months old, and she looks about sixteen!"

"You must have wonderful maids," suggested Nancy, smiling.

"I have!" said Dorothy amusedly, "They're crazy about me--I don't
know why, because I work them like dogs. But of course we're away
a lot, and then they always have parties," she added, "and they
run things pretty much to suit themselves. But we have good meals,
don't we, Elaine?" she asked, childishly.

"Heavenly!" said Elaine. Nancy, trying to appear brightly
sympathetic, smiled again.

But she and Bert dressed for dinner almost silently, an hour
later. It was all delightful and luxurious, truly, and they were
most considerately and hospitably accepted by the entire
establishment. But something was wrong. Nancy did not know what it
was, and she did not want to risk a mere childish outburst, so
easily construed into jealousy. Perhaps it WAS jealousy.

She found herself arguing, as she dressed. This sort of thing was
not LIFE, after all. The quiet wife of an obscure man, rejoicing
in her home and her children, had a thousand times more real
pleasure. These well-dressed idle people didn't count, after all. ...

"Sort of nice of Dorothy to send Hawkes in for us," Bert said;
"Did you hear her explain that she thought we'd be more