She had been painted, enameled, vibrated, massaged; she had had
electric treatment, rays and tissue builders; and once she had been
baked. To-day the toilet table would be loaded with milkweed,
cerates and vanishing cream; tomorrow they would all be swept away,
given to delighted chambermaids, while Mrs. Condon declared that,
when all was said, cold water and a rough towel was nature's way.

This afternoon, apparently everything, including hope, had failed.
She was as cross as cross. From the manner in which she spoke it
might have been Linda's fault. The worst of it was that even the
latter saw that nothing could be done. Her mother was growing--well,
a little tired in appearance. Swift tears gathered in Linda's eyes.
She hadn't been quite truthful in that reassuring speech of hers.
She set herself to the examination of various older women with whom
she had more or less lately come in contact. How had they regarded
and met the loss of whatever good looks they had possessed?

It was terribly mixed up, but, as she thought about it, it seemed to
her that the world of women was divided into two entirely different
groups, the ones men liked, and who had such splendid parties; and
the ones who sat together and gossiped in sharp lowered voices. She
hoped passionately that her mother would not become one of the
latter for a long long while. But eventually it seemed that there
was no escape from the circle of brilliantly dressed creatures with
ruined faces who congregated in the hotels and whispered and nodded
in company until they went severally to bed.

The great difference between one and the other, of course, was the
favor of men. Their world revolved about that overwhelming fact. Her