The younger women of the same class were more animated, but no less
irreproachable in style.

There were others, middle-aged and young, with all the native style of
the second-class, and still others who were clad in coarse serges,
cashmeres, or cheap silks, shapelessly made with the heavy hand of
many burdens. These did not detain the hostess in conversation, but
gathered in groups, or walked about the room gazing at the many
beautiful pictures and ornaments. There were only three or four really
vulgar-looking women present, and they were clothed in conspicuous
raiment. One, and all but her waist was huge, wore a bodice of
transparent gauze; another, also of middle years, had crowned her hard
over-coloured face with a large gentian-blue hat turned up in front
with a brass buckle. Another was in pink silk and heavily powdered.
But although these women were offensively loud, they did not suggest
any lack of that virtue whose exact proportions so often elude the
most earnest seeker after truth.

Betty turned impulsively to an old woman clad in shabby black who
stood besides her gazing earnestly at the crowd. Her large bony face
was crossed by the lines and wrinkles of long years of care, and her
eyes were dim; but her mouth was smiling.

"Tell me," exclaimed Betty, "please--are all these people in politics?
I--I--am a stranger, and I should like to know who they are."

"Well, I can tell you pretty near everything you want to know, I
guess," replied the old lady. She had the drawl and twang and accent
of rural New England. "I guess you've come here, like myself, jest to
see the folks. A few here, like you and me, ar'n't in official life,