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Rh "Naturally."

"A man likes to be proud of his wife too," went on the sage, "proud of her friends, of her place in society. Now Lucy—absolutely no social-sense—not a spark. No doubt, if she's made any friends at all, they're the grocery-man and the seamstress, or the woman who washes her hair."

Ruth giggled.

"Now you, Ruth," Edith pursued, "are a girl after my own heart. You are the kind to be the wife of a famous man. You could be Mrs. William Maynard with the right sort of go."

I had to smile at the thought of Ruth and Will. Will hates false things—puffs and brilliantine; he hates fluffy negligees, and silly, high-heeled unwalkable shoes; he hates fuss and feathers. I passed on down the hall.

"It will take more than Edith Campbell and my young sister Ruth to disturb me, I guess," I said to myself as I turned out several flaring gas-jets in the hall and bathroom, left by those two extravagant creatures to burn all night.

Edith awoke the next morning armoured for battle. I could see it in her eyes and feel it in her manner. I knew it was to be no slight skirmish, but a well-thought-out and carefully-planned campaign. I knew it was to be a serious engagement because neither she nor Ruth criticised a single thing for the next two days. If they were shocked and surprised, I knew it only by raised eyebrows, critical smiles or covert glances. I hated their silence. I felt as if the entire foundation of my life was stealthily being honeycombed with tunnels, laid with bombs and