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 spaniel, and her companion, Carrie Pyne, like a woman made of ashes of roses, who would hold together—just—until some one touched her, or a breeze blew on her. Joe's sister-in-law Lulu came, in her mourning for Tom Green, dropping a black-bordered handkerchief, a vinaigrette, black gloves, a card case, a long scarf, here and there about the house as she and her sturdy little daughter Charlotte were shown its beauties. From the cocoa-brown stone house across the street, with cut into the mounting block, where a fountain spattered on an iron umbrella held by two iron children, and the broad plate-glass windows were veiled in lace, came Mrs. Hoagland Driggs, fat, jolly, sparkling with diamonds, full of sly jokes about brides that made Kate blush. Not quite a lady, Kate thought, but she liked Mrs. Driggs in spite of herself, she was so kind, sending over green peas from the garden, and fresh chocolate cakes, and telling so much scandalous gossip. About Mrs. Martine, for instance.

Kate couldn't bear Mrs. Martine. She was sure she put stuff on her eyelashes to make them black. And she called Joe Joey. Joey, indeed! When Kate told Joey, severely, that Mrs. Martine had called, he looked as bland as butter and said she was a fine little woman. Little! Kate nearly burst! Joe calling that woman little, when she would have made two of him—well, not quite two, but she must have been nearly three inches the taller.

Miss Smith, who kept boarders next door, was too